Best of the Brine

A Thread So Thin

The rain hits the sidewalk, making small explosions all around me. It patters against the bulge under my jacket, where I have placed my history book so that it won't get wet. Tonight's assignment is some reading on The Almost Dark Ages. It was a time in history hundreds of years ago when it appeared that humanity would surely be stuck in some dark hole that would stunt our growth as a race for generations. But we all know it was cleverly avoided by a man called J. H., his full name had been lost with time. I loved reading about him, and his incredible knowledge. Sometimes, it felt like I could be his friend if I ever met him. But I knew that would never happen, he had lived centuries ago.

I was a bit of a history buff, I had to admit. There was something about it that fascinated me, without end. As I wiped my shoes next to the door of my apartment, I thought about James. If he were here, he would have walked right in, shoes tracking in small lakes and mudslides. I neatly set my shoes to the side and placed the history book onto the couch.

A picture of James and I from last summer greets me as I turn on the lights in the kitchen. We aren't looking at the camera, but at each other. It wasn't one of those posed shots, either. We had been hiking, something we both enjoyed immensely, and I had lost my footing. James had caught me from behind. He had pulled me close to him. The picture captured his expression perfectly, he loved me. One of our fellow hikers had taken it, and asked if we wanted a copy. Yes, it was sort of creepy, but when she showed it to me on her digital camera, I just had to write down my address so that she could send it to me. James worried that she was some kind of psychopath out for blood, but I think she just recognized true love when she saw it. When the picture came in the mail, it had taken my breath away. It wasn't because of how James looked, I had remembered his face. It was my own expression that surprised me. In that moment, I remember being afraid, because I had thought I was falling. But in the picture, I look calm, as if James' arms were a fortress and I was protected against everything.

I still feel that way. Without him, I think I would die.

That's not to say we don't have our faults and tiffs. But nothing could ever stop me from loving him. Nothing could ever come between us.

I grab a glass and a bottle of wine and prepare myself for a long night of reading. Then I hear a soft rapping on the door. Perplexed, I pad over to the peephole. But before I reach it, I hear a familiar voice drift through the door.

"Baby, it's me. Let me in," James' low voice says.

I smile, warmth filling every damp bit of me. Without thinking, I reach for the doorknob and turn. He rushes past me without making eye contact. But I know its him, because he hasn't taken of his shoes, so in his wake are small puddles across my floor.

His tall figure stops in the center of the living room. "It's just as I remember it."

I grab for a towel I always keep by the door and begin to wipe up after him. "You were here yesterday, I haven't changed much."

When I look back up, I finally notice he is wearing a coat I do not recognize, and though his hair is wet from the rain, I swear I see gray laced through the black. "Is that a new jacket?" I ask, even though it looks worn and ragged.

"No," he mumbles "I got it years ago."

"I've never seen it," I say as I approach him from behind, finally done cleaning up the floor.

"I know," he says sadly.

When I come around him and look into his face, I feel strange. It is James, most definitely James. But he isn't my James. I hadn't been imagining the gray hair, and the beginner's wrinkles at the edges of his eyes and forehead make me take a step back.

His arms twitch towards me, as if he is ready to catch me should I fall down from shock. That is how I know its James, my fortress.

"You know it's me, but you don't understand how," he says slowly.

"What happened to you?" I ask, dozens of scenarios running through my head. I think of everything from radiation poisoning to stage make up.

He blinks once, twice, his eyes seem to devour me. "Time."

"What do you mean?"

Water drips from his chin and off of his shoulders, outlining a man most likely in his late forties. My James is 26 years old.

"I'm not from now. Your James is finishing up a paper and thinking about calling you."

I'm speechless, and in awe.

"I'm from the future, and I'm so sorry to ruin your evening," he apologizes. I can tell he means it, because there was a hitch in his voice at the end of the word 'ruin'.

"How are you here?"

I can tell from the way his jaw clenches, and how his eyes are on fire that he wants to touch me. A memory of James last spring surfaces. We hadn't seen each other in a week, and the look this James is giving me is the same as then but intensified. It's as if he hasn't seen me in years.

"We should sit down," he motions to the couch.

"Alright," it feels like I float over to the couch. I pick up the history book and shift it to the coffee table.

James' eyes focus on the book, then he glances at me. "May I?"

"Of course," I say as I hand it to him.

He runs his hand over the cover, and then opens it to the chapter I was supposed to read that very evening. He skims for a few moments, then nods his head and gives the book back to me, still opened.

"Third paragraph, second sentence," he says in a determined sort of way.

I read it aloud, even though we both know what it says. "J.H. arrived in England that same year, bringing an end to a worrisome era that could have led humanity into its darkest hour."

I stop and look up at him. "Everyone knows this."

"Just like I am here now, I was there then," he pauses as he waits for me to make the connection, "I am J. H."

I only think he is kidding for a moment, before I realize there would be no reason for him to lie to me like this. Besides, it makes sense; his name is James Holden. The only thing I can't figure, is why he is telling me all of this.

As if he is reading my mind, he says what I am thinking. "You are wondering why I am telling you this."

All I can do is nod, my grip on the book becoming tighter. My nerves are beginning to tell me that something is wrong, and that I don't want him to continue. I should make him stop, make him leave, make him go back to where he came from.

"Before I tell you why, I need to explain how." He runs his tongue over his lips, and I can tell he doesn't want to explain anything, and that his mouth is dry.

"Would you like some water, or something to drink?" I interrupt.

He almost looks relieved. "Yes."

I stand, and his hand reaches out to my arm. I look down at his fingers as they graze my skin, and feel the electricity between us.

He looks completely taken aback, like he has forgotten it is always this way when we touch. "I'm sorry," he says quickly as he stands. "I can get it, I know where it is."

I watch him stride into the kitchen and go directly for the cabinet with the glassware. As he lets the faucet run water into the glass his eyes flicker to my favorite picture of us. "I hate that picture."

"Why?"

He takes one last look and turns off the faucet, heading back to the couch. My question goes unanswered as he sits and slowly sips on the water.

"I'm not going to tell you all the science behind my time travel, it would take too long and you wouldn't understand it." He sets down the glass, never considering to use a coaster.

It seems like he waits for me to protest, but the truth is, I don't want to hear him rattle on about physics and the theoretical, I just want to know why.

"Imagine time is a thread. It is unending and forever with no end and no beginning," he watches me nod my understanding, "Well, I found the thread."

Immediately, an image of James forms in my head. I see him standing in a room that extends as far as the eye can see, and he is staring down at a thin golden thread which floats midair. A small smile forms on his lips, because he realizes he is the first person to discover the thread. He is like a young child with a secret, ready to explode, but afraid to go any further.

 

 

He runs his hands over his beat-up jeans. "I figured out that in order to travel between times, you had to make them connect," he watches as I nod my understanding and then continues, "We only exist in the present at a certain place on the thread, so I had to take that place and connect it with the time I wanted to be in."

He touches his fingertips together ever so slowly, concentrating on the dwindling space between them. It's like he doesn't want to continue, as if what he is about to say will shatter whatever confidence he has left.

 

 

"So, I had to cut the thread, and then tie my end with the end I wished to be in," his eyes travel to mine as his hands drop into his lap with a thud.

 

 

It's obvious that I don't quite understand why he is so upset. My James would never do anything bad, so this couldn't be as terrible as he is making it seem.

 

 

His shoulders fold in and he loses eye contact. "When you cut a thread, microscopic fibers fall away and can never be recovered. Portions of the thread are lost forever."

 

 

It's still all too much for me to comprehend, even though I feel as if he has laid out something plainly for me. It feels like there is a dark hole in front of me, and James is beckoning me to jump across it, to understand the severity of what he has done. But I don't want to see the other side.

 

 

"I think you should stop now, James," I say softly but with enough force to make my point clear.

 

 

"That's my point, baby, I can't stop what I have started," his expression becomes steeled, as if he has rehearsed this part a hundred times and has never quite liked how it comes out. "Parts are missing. People are missing, and I can't fix it. The more I try to sow it back together, the worse it all becomes."

 

 

A lump has risen to my throat, but I am still able to squeak out a few words. "So stop now."

He shakes his head, and his fingers brush against my cheeks every so softly. "The sick part is, I would do it all over again. I would risk erasing all of history just to have another chance."

My eyebrows thread together with a confused expression. "Another chance at what?"

"To fix you."

First, I feel anger, for there is nothing wrong with me at all. But then I realize I have misinterpreted his meaning and panic starts to churn in my stomach. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, that if I never had to fix you, I would have never found the thread in the first place," his eyes drift away to a place I have never seen, "I wouldn't be here asking this of you."

It is my turn to shake my head. "You haven't asked anything of me."

"In five minutes, James is going to call you. The two of you will have a fight, and break up. I know it seems like an impossibility, but it happens every time," his hand reaches for the glass of water and he sips on it again, "Then after another two minutes, he will call you back."

My mind is reeling, because none of this seems real. It all must be a dream.

"When it happened before, we got back together and I rushed over here to see you."

I can't hear anymore, because it is clear this is all leading to a place I don't ever want to see. "Please, stop this."

It's as if he doesn't hear me, he is reading from an invisible script. "When I got here, you were on the floor, unconscious. I got here in enough time to keep you alive, but I've never made it here with enough time to save you," he pauses as pain fills his eyes "I've gone back a thousand times in a thousand different ways, but I can't save you."

"I don't understand, what happened to me?" I immediately check myself internally, but I feel fine, normal even.

"A stroke, and there is nothing we can do to stop it," there is a beat and then he looks directly at me,
"I've even gone back to the Dark Ages and avoided them so that our civilization could be more advanced in the future so that the doctors could fix you. But they can't, and never will be able to."

I close my eyes, because I can't bear to look at his expression for another moment.

"I've ruined time, history, everything. I will destroy the world if I try again, and I will try again. You need to stop me."

I can't yet understand what he is asking of me, if it is to kill him or something else. "But how can I do that if I'm going to be dead?"

"When James calls you the second time, you will not get back together. You will tell him that you don't love him anymore and never want to see him again," though I am not looking at him I can tell his eyes have dropped to the floor "That way, he won't rush here, and he will never find you. James won't need to find the thread, because there will be no one to fix. You will be gone."

Now I understand. It's not James that wants to die, it is I who must.

So quietly, that I almost miss it, James whispers, "This is murder."

Tears have begun to slip down my face, panic and rage boil in my stomach.

Then a shrill ringing cuts between us. We both look to the phone sitting on the coffee table. I jump for it, knowing that if I hear his voice, this will all be alright.

"James?" I half cry into the phone.

"Hey, babe, are you alright?" he asks.

 

"I don't know, what are you doing right now. Can you come over?"

There is a pause. "Not just yet, I have to finish some things first."

"Please, James," I plead.

"I'll be there when I can, but I have to get this done. It's not like you're going anywhere, right?" He chuckles at this joke.

But I do not laugh. Rage boils over. I say the only thing I can think of to get him here, I need him, now. "If you don't drop what you are doing and head here right now, I'm going to break up with you."

He doesn't think I'm serious at first, but when he hears me stay silent, he must realize it. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"You are," I say coldly as I stare into the old James' face next to me on the couch.

"Jesus, if that's the way you really feel, then I guess we should break up."

And that wasn't what I was expecting of him. But before I can apologize, he hangs up.

I drop the phone next to me, and feel as if I could shatter.

James leans in towards me. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

I can't bring myself to say anything to him. He has ruined my life, possibly even stolen it from me.

He looks down at his watch and waits for what seems like one minute. "James will be calling you soon, and you need to be able to say the right thing."

I'm holding back sobs, so I just glare at him.

"When you say these things, you will tell them to me, though you will be speaking to him. Your James doesn't deserve to hear them, but I do."

"What am I going to say?" I spit out.

"That I've disappointed you, that I can't protect you, and that your life would have been better should we have never met." He has taken great care in selecting these words, I can tell.

The phone rings once. Twice. I pick it up.

"Baby," my James starts.

But I interrupt him almost immediately. "No, I don't want to hear it," without missing a beat I look directly at James and start my suicide note. "You have been nothing but a disappointment. I know now that you are not my fortress and you cannot protect me. James, my life would have been so different if we would have never met," I pause as a sharp pain stabs in my chest "it would have been better. I never want to see you again."

Then I hang up, knowing I have broken his heart and that I will never see him again. It feels like I thought it would, as if I was dieing. But then I realize, that I am dieing, just not with the right James at my side. Moments later, I'm on the floor.

I notice how parts of the paint on my ceiling are cracking and peeling. As the pain surges through my body, I search for James.

He is there, hands wrapped around mine, a waterfall of tears descending from his eyes. "I'm here, baby."

My chest is tightening, and I lose vision in my left eye. I can tell that I'm seizing, but I can't control anything. My body is lost to me.

But I see James, and I don't know if I'm hallucinating, but he suddenly looks younger. I wonder if I'm dieing for no reason, if he came over anyways. Yet, I also know that's impossible, he couldn't have gotten here in time, he never had before. Then I see the old James again, and know that it was my imagination trying to help me in my last moments.

I hear him speak, but the words are muffled.

"It's just as I remember it. It wont be much longer, I promise."

 

And I know he is right.

Best of the Brine

Not the Same




I have always believed. 

Ever since I was a girl sitting in my mother's kitchen with curly pig tails and lace-frilled socks, I knew that God was right in all things. He created us, and watched us as we went along with our lives. I prayed every night, and praised every Sunday morning with the rest of the congregation. I felt blessed, touched by God himself. It was a time when questions could be answered by looking to the church and never second-guessed.

When I turned seventeen, I fell in love. The boy had hair of gold, and eyes like the ocean. We held hands and helped each other with homework. The next year, he asked me to marry him. It was a dream come true. I never thought I could be happier. I never thought it would end.

We finished college and began to work. Our house was beautiful, and everything I had ever wanted. God was smiling down on us, he was happy with us. It wasn't until we had been married for five years that things began to change. 

I had never been interested in politics much, so I had never visited a voting booth. God would protect us, he was in all things after all. My husband, however, believed his voice should be heard. So he voted for those of faith, because who else could we trust more? That year, my husband voted for a person named Robert Franks who was widely known as an active member of his church and knew the bible from cover to cover. I thought my husband had made the right choice. 

During his term, Robert Franks set into motion several laws that seemed quite ordinary in their nature. We were happy with him, God was happy with us all. 

When spring came and the tulips began to bloom, my husband and I tried to start a family. It was the same spring that Robert Franks put forth a piece of legislation called "Prenatal Care and Defense of Children". It sounded like he was doing the right thing once more, God's work. My husband and I went along with our lives as we always had. When we heard that there were some people in the state who were unhappy with the legislation, we dismissed it as those who did not believe. 

I conceived the next fall. It was the happiest day of my life when I saw the look of pure joy on my husband's face.God had once again smiled down on us. I read every book I could find and did anything to ensure the health of my baby.

But it wasn't enough.

I woke up one morning to the feeling of wetness underneath the sheets. Blood had pooled between my legs, and soaked through to the mattress. My husband rushed me to the hospital. They told me it was too late, and that the baby had been lost. Miscarried. 

The sadness was incomprehensible. It felt as if the world was crushing in around us. I asked God why it had happened. I looked to the church, but could not find an answer. 

The answer came the night I was to be released from the hospital. 

A sheriff walked into my room as my husband held my hand for the fifth continuous hour. 

"Ma'am," the sheriff said, "I'm going to have to ask you to come with me."

My husband stood up, placing himself between the sheriff and I. "What is this about?"

"Your wife is a suspect in a murder investigation, and I need to take her back to the station for questioning," the sheriff stated plainly.

Confusion spread like disease.

"Murder?" My husband repeated.

"Yes. Of your unborn child."

Never had I thought I would hear those words. But they rang in my ears like gunshots. 

I went to the station and answered their questions truthfully. 

But it wasn't enough.

Now I wake up every morning in a small damp cell to the feeling that God no longer loves me. My husband has read the legislation "Prenatal Care and Defense of Children" dozens of times, and curses the day he voted for Robert Franks.

Because it was labeled 'miscarriage', I was able to be prosecuted to the full extent of the law for prenatal murder.

I know I didn't kill my baby, but Robert Franks thinks I did.

Yes, I have always believed. But I do not believe that Robert Franks and I have faith in the same god.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you think this story is ridiculous. Read this

::head shake of shame::

I don't like naming things so I don't have to and you can't make me....

Product of sitting inside on a gloomy day, staring at a fireplace. Attempts at a happy story: 2 Successful attempts at a happy story: 0

We never used our fireplace, and I never really questioned why. Not now, anyway. When I was much younger, barely five, I asked my father. My father was a gentle and kind man so when he looked at me as if he were about to hit me, it made an impression.  His usually mild countenance twisted with fury and frustration, saying that we never used the fireplace, and we never asked about it either. 

 It made an impression. The kind of impression that a leaf leaves on soft clay. I was young then, malleable. And my father was a large oak tree, bursting with full, large leaves of wisdom. And he pressed the fireplace leaf firmly to my skin, and it left its mark. I grew up, solidified as myself, lost my softness and pliability. But the imprint from that leaf remained. I listened to my father’s words.

But I never lost the curiosity. Every time I passed the large multicolored and carved stones, the elaborately twisted iron, I wondered. If ever I sat in the overstuffed wingchair with birds embroidered on it, the silhouette of the barren fireplace visible out of the tiniest corner of my eye, and I wondered. 

My house was full of beauty and my father had a story for nearly every nook and cranny. I suppose that is what you get when you live in a house that your family has owned for nearly 250 years.  The huge fireplace was the crown jewel of the entire home. A home full of dark wood and elaborate stained glass windows. Each room crafted more beautifully and carefully than the last. I was allowed everywhere.  The house could have been a museum, a place an adult could easily prohibit a child to touch anything, ever. But I was allowed everywhere. I could touch whatever I wanted.  My home was my playground. But the fireplace was forbidden. And I listened to my father’s words. I never asked again.

But I also turned into a teenager, a time when you don’t ask. Of course, you still need to, but don’t . And I didn’t. 

I should have.

It was a Monday evening. There was no school that day and my father was having drinks with a friend down the road in a pub nearly as old as my house.

Tommy Stanton was over. I  liked him, so when he started asking me about the fireplace, I answered him with such assurance I almost believed that the stones were from India and the iron was crafted in France. I glowed under his approval of the fireplace. 

And he asked to light it. I said of course, instantly, and ran off to find some matches. I remember, I was halfway between the kitchen and the living room when I hesitated. I stopped, suddenly, midstride, and remembered the strange encounter from my father nearly 10 years earlier. After all, the impression he left remained. 

But there was a cute boy in my living room, and I wanted so desperately to impress him. So I strode forward, confidant. I entered my living room and smiled at Tommy. I chose a match, struck the matchbook, and inhaled the strong scent of sulfur. The match flared, exploding into flame, nearly burning the tips of my fingers. I dropped it into the fireplace.

Nothing happened. I tried again. Still, nothing. The wood refused to light. I looked sidelong at Tommy, who was frowning at the silent and dark wood. I started to panic and heat rose to my cheeks. I reached for another match, but before I could light it, the fireplace roared to life.

I knew immediately that something was wrong. The fire was too hot, too ferocious. Tommy looked at it, amazed, seemingly unfazed by the pervasive feeling of wrongness that radiated from the flames. He seemed drawn to it. He leaned in closer, fascinated.

I remember saying his name, trying to warn him not to get to close. 

His expression did not change, my words did not register in even the smallest capacity. I grabbed his green flannel shirt with my thin and shaking fingers and tried to pull him away. Pull him back.  He didn’t move.  He didn’t sway. He sat on the ground as if anchored to the mahogany floors. I couldn’t move him. And still he leaned closer. 

I got up, ran for the kitchen, and filled up a brass pot with water. I ran back to the living room, where Tommy sat completely unaware that I had left or perhaps that I was even there to begin with. I threw the water on the white flames. Nothing happened. The fire didn’t sizzle, the wood didn’t steam. The flames simply raged on. And Tommy was close enough to touch it. The frames of his glasses started to wilt.

I screamed. Long and loud. And the flames, for one moment, blinded me, and my scream was cut short from surprise. I shielded my eyes with the crook of my arm, shutting them so tightly that bright and terrible patterns bloomed on the backs of my eyelids. 

It was quiet. Slowly, I lowered my arm and opened my eyes. The fire was gone, put out as if it were never there to begin with. The only sign that it ever existed was a strange, sparkling and pale smoke that hung in the air. 

And Tommy was gone. I looked around, as if in the short moments I closed my eyes he might have had time to get up or leave. First I ran outside, hopeful that my concept of time had somehow been altered by fear or confusion. Then I ran through the entire house, saying, calling, then shouting his name. Finally, I returned to the fireplace. I sat, crumpled and small. 

The front door groaned open, then clicked shut. I heard the soles of my father’s shoes scrape on the wooden floors. Then it was quiet. Still. I could envision him looking around, hearing the loud silence of the house and seeing the strange smoke. He probably set his wallet and keys on the glass table under the mirror, removed his glasses, and ran his fingers through his graying hair, as he always did when he was worried or upset. 

I heard his shoes again. Drawing nearer and nearer. And then he was crouched beside me. He tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. I stared at my hands, tears sliding down my cheeks. My father sighed. 

“Was Tommy over?”  He asked me.

I looked up at him, surprised. I didn’t understand how he could possibly know that. He looked tired and withdrawn and he was staring at the fireplace, unblinking. He gave an infinitesimal jerk of the head.  I turned my head, following his gaze. 

I stared at the stone he appeared to be looking at. I squinted my eyes, and slowly edged forward, leaning in so I could see better. It was a lovely stone, green, like soft flannel. And there was an impression. Of a boy. Carved perfectly into the stone. I looked up at my father, shocked, horrified.

He looked down at me. 

“We don’t talk about the fireplace” He said to me.

Then he stood, stroked my hair once, and walked out of the room, leaving me there staring at the hard green impression of a boy I used to know.

We don’t talk about the fireplace. We don’t use it either. Once was enough. Once was more than enough to make an impression.

Best of the Brine

The Justified

The island was reserved for the worst criminals on the continent. Everyone knew that once you were sent to the island, it was the last time you were seen by the rest of the world. Its exact location was a secret to everyone but the transporters. Of course some people thought they knew where it was, but the truth was that criminals could have been boated to the middle of the ocean and left to drown and the world would never know of it. For the good people, the island could have just been an idea.


I was one of those people who doubted its existence. But I had always been a conspiracy theorist, wanting to believe in what wasn't because what was didn't seem plausible. Or maybe I was just never satisfied with the way the world worked. You are probably wondering if that's the reason I did it. But you're wrong. So were they.

The shackles around my wrists weigh several pounds and rub against my skin in such a way that leaves them raw and bleeding. My time in prison had not been kind to my body. Every joint ached, my ribs were visible against my pale skin and my short-cropped hair lies in pieces over my eyes.

The transporters haven't bothered blindfolding me to keep the location safe. Since I will never leave the island, it doesn't matter whether I know where it is or not. There is no danger of me telling anyone but the whispers of the wind. Of course I have prepared myself for them to stop suddenly and throw me from the boat, leaving me to drown and be eaten by sea monsters. I awaited my death with the salty air biting at my open wounds.

The simple shift covering my body whipped around in the wind, not leaving much to the imagination of what was underneath. But it didn't bother me anymore, I was going to die.

Oh Snap

We're over due for a new post aren't we?? Well, there hasn't been a new short story recently because we are using all of our juice on a rewrite of Provenance that is sure to knock your socks off...or at least make your feet itch a little.

I keep getting asked the same question: why are you rewriting it, WAIT, you are rewriting the WHOLE thing?!

To which I say: Yes, the whole thing because its a better story now than it was when we wrote it, and it deserves better story telling.

But I'm happy with the rewrite so far, I think we both are. Actually I know we both are.

Can I just say something though? If it was six years ago, I WOULD NOT being doing this rewrite. It amazes me how much I have changed as a writer over the years (note less run on sentences and I try to consider the ellipsis before putting it in use).

Lastly, if it is requested enough, I just might consult my other half on posting parts of the rewrite on the old blog if we wont be doing short stories for a while.

Give me your thoughts, or Karma will find you and take them! (its a Provenance joke...sorry y'all)

I Dunno...

Aaaaaannnnd this is what happens when I am bored and have no creative juices. So sad. I shouldn't post this. You can only read it if you promise to forget it and never speak of it again. lolz.


The bridge rumbled beneath my feet.

Skeletons danced across the street.
Cracks formed in the gray concrete.

A monster wielding rage appeared.
Smelling of all things evil and fear.
I looked for a weapon that could be near.

The ground broke away.
No escape, I had to stay.
Staring down the monster made of rot and decay.

It breathed hastily in and out.
Ugly and forever and deafeningly loud.
Its figure advanced towards me across the empty ground.

Time was of the essence.
How little of it was left in the present.
When the monster had shown you the end.

It grew until it was always and forever.
And my last thought was never, never
Would we again be together.

Inside the monster it was dark and frightening.
No light was present, not even lightening
Your memory was the only thing brightening.

When I lost it.
The monster became lit.
And I knew I fit.

The monster and me.

Best of the Brine

Celebrating our 20th "Best of the Brine"! Wowza! Thanks for reading, hope your eyes haven't bled yet. ;) Also, last month we celebrated one year of blogging (fairly) consistently! Crazy, right?!

Gone

Among those in heaven, it has long been known that their return to their loved ones  on Earth would occur at a distant point in the future. But that is only among the dead, otherwise known as insider information.
So, how is it that I have come upon this knowledge?

It really just dropped on my head the moment my real eyes, those made with flesh and blood and DNA, closed for the last time. I had one more living thought, and then I was somewhere else. The street that I had been smeared across was gone, and I was surrounded by white.

There was no pain, no blood, just my favorite outfit as I stared down at my body. The white slowly drifted away from me and a gate appeared several yards away. It was the single most beautiful structure I had ever seen. A metallic substance unknown to me that shimmered when the light hit it at every angle twisted around itself and skyrocketed upwards. Just to the right of it stood a podium, with a thick book and quill pen resting on top of it.

I approached the podium, beginning to feel strange about the fact that there was no one else within eyesight. In delicate handwriting I saw the list. Thousands, or more like millions, of names were etched into the pages along with a date. I skimmed the list, seeing a few names I recognized from the past few years and days, until I reached the last name.

It wasn't mine.
Silently, I wondered if I was supposed to write my own name in. I dismissed the notion since every other name on the list had been written in the same beautiful cursive. There was no variation at all. No one else had written in their names upon arrival. Someone had been here to greet them. But I stood at an empty podium and an empty gate.

For another moment, I considered putting down my name and came to the conclusion that it was the right thing to do. Whoever was usually at the podium might need to know I had been there. I tried my hardest to make my writing legible with the ethereal pen and then set it back down just the way I had found it.

Turning to the gate, I couldn't imagine it would be easy to get through it without someone opening it for me. But as I approached it, the huge doors swung open, revealing a long road that stretched out for what seemed like forever. So I began my journey down the road, considering the fact that it might take me an eternity.

After only a few moments, I noticed a golden sign floating above me. It read simply: Touch the place in your heart that you wish to be, and it will be so. Love travels the greatest distance. It was rather inspirational to give me any kind of concrete answer, but I decided to try it. There was still no one around, so if it didn't work, at least no one would see me acting a fool.

Hesitantly, I placed my hand over my heart and thought about a place I wanted to go. The first place that came to mind was the smell of cookies and mint and fresh cut flowers. My surroundings shimmered until I recognized where I was.

My grandmother's house came into focus around me. Cookies were cooling on the counter, a small glass bowl of mints sat on the center of the kitchen table and fresh cut flowers were bunched together in vase on the windowsill. It was exactly how I remembered it. Except for one thing that was missing: my grandmother.

"Grandma?" I asked in a small voice.

No response came. So, I searched the house and backyard with no success. She was gone, just as everyone seemed to be. Had there been some big, important meeting called?

My curiosity had been sparked, so I started to visit every place I had ever loved to try and find someone, anyone, who could answer my question.

But with each place, I only found more of the same: nothing and no one. After a dozen places, I finally resorted to visiting anywhere I could think of that would have a large amount of people. Disneyworld. Yankee Stadium. The Eiffel Tower. No one. Everywhere was empty. I began to worry that something was wrong.

Best of the Brine

White as Snow

Stumbling through brush, knees bleeding and nearly blind from tears spilling down my face, I knew I was nowhere safe. The forest had always been a forbidden and frightening place that I had watched from my window for the first seventeen years of my life. But as I run through it now, I long for my window and nice things.

The sun begins to set, and soon all I can see are the images from the terrible morning burning against the backs of my eyes. A handsome young man, known for his hunting skill took me to the edge of the forest at the request of my stepmother. He was to show me his talents, which I was excited for. The young man had always caught my eye, and I often wondered if the feeling was mutual.

When he rose his bow and arrow, I knew it was not.

Just then, my foot catches a stray root protruding from the ground. I land face down in cold mud, wondering how my life has come to this. What had I done to deserve such a punishment? The question remains unanswered as I try to blink away the tears in my eyes. Shivering and alone, I think back to how I ended up here.

Early in the morning, my stepmother had stopped by my room and brushed my hair.

"Like fine black silk, my dear." She had cooed.

My stepmother usually didn't pay much attention to me, so her affection was a nice surprise.

Her cool hand ran down the side of my face, barely brushing the edges of my lips. "Beautiful red lips, as if dipped in blood."

I blushed at her compliments, not used to them coming from her.

"And of course your skin," her hands paused at the base of my neck, "as white and perfect as freshly fallen snow."

Our eyes met in the mirror. I had never heard her speak in such a way about me. "Thank you."

Her gaze turned towards a faraway place, her eyes took on a quality of memories revisited. "I never thought you would be so beautiful, but the mirror doesn't lie."

She left then, her black dress sweeping through the doorway.

I am pushed back to the present and my miserable situation. For the first time, I notice a light through the thick treeline, just stealing through branches and trunks as big as me. It is a flicker, but it burns inside of me like a blazing fire.

Well, I've been trying for a week to come up with a new short story to post, and it seems the wells have dried up for now. Sorry to those who actually read/enjoy our weird little postings. This week has been swallowed by Indy duty, tv shows and actual work.

Not to mention, we have been thinking about retooling one of our stories so the past two days have been spent writing new beginnings...eight to be exact about it. And, after all that, I still can't decide on the perfect way to start the story. I've been trying to be technical about it, but I just want to fall in love with something and frustration is setting in.

Let's break it down.

I love who we now begin the story with, but what is he/she doing? (sorry about being so incredibly ambiguous about this lol) What is THE EVENT that starts it all (and no, I'm not talking about the stupid NBC show)? I guess my problem is I want it to be perfect. I want the hook that makes you go "I gotta read this in the next six hours or I'll die". We are closer to that than ever before, and I know it will come to me as I'm in the shower one day (all the best ideas arrive there, I don't know why...it's a strange phenomenon). But until then, I'm just going to stare at the wall and make myself think.

I can't even come up with a clever way of finishing this post. I need to visit the creative juicer machine in the sky.

The Adventures of Indy the Puppy

Introducing my new puppy, Indy (yes, as in Indiana Jones because I'm that awesome).

Remember those monkeys from "Kingdom of the Crystal Skull"? Well, Indy hates them too!

After the monkey was dead to his liking, he decided to pose for the camera (or rather, I made a funny sound and he looked at me for a split second).

"hello,  my name is Indy and you'll never be as cute as me."

Then, after a long day, he crashed and no amount of poking or prodding would wake him.

what do corgis dream of, when they take a little corgi snooze?

do they dream of chasing squirrels, or killing monkeys if they have to choose?

don't you worry your pretty Indy head, we're gonna get you to your crate and your cozy corgi bed.

then we're gonna take some pictures of you, and pick up everything that you shouldn't chew.

indyyyy indyyyy indyyyy oh indyyyy indy indy indy

and if you decide to make potty in the hoooouuuse

...then we're shit outta luck.



There you have the newest edition to the family. Enjoy random and unscheduled updates!

Best of the Brine

My Dream House

In my dream house, the walls are white and the lights are bright. There is a certain stale feeling that never goes away, no matter how many pictures of flowers I draw and paste to the walls. The rooms are many, so many in fact, I haven't been in all of them. Of course there are some I venture into often. Usually I enjoy visiting those rooms, but some of them are like living nightmares. The paint peels away from the walls, bugs litter the floor, and writing that isn't my own is scratched into the door frame.

But I guess that is the problem with my dream house: sometimes it isn't even mine. They say that isn't possible, which is why they painted my walls white and installed those terrible fluorescent lights.I am given vitamins to keep from entering the scary places, and sometimes they even work. Yet, other times I find myself wondering what is in those dark rooms, the ones I have never been to.

What magic could lie there? What adventures? Why am I not allowed in any rooms but the ones with the lights that they tell me I can enter?

So when they aren't looking, I explore my dream house.

The first few floors look like the one where I live. But eventually, I find the elevator. When I step in, I'm amazed at the numbers I can press. For starters, I chance a trip to floor 2,003. It's a place I have been to before, and that I enjoyed very much. Upon arrival, I discover that the walls are still white. It disappoints me that they were able to touch them without my approval. I feel violated, and it makes me angry.

I march back to the elevator and climb even farther up. Floor 6,000. I don't remember this place very well. My heart sinks when I see cans of stark white paint on the floor, brushes wet and ready to be set on the walls. How could they get so far without my knowing? A split second decision fueled by anger sends me forward and kicking over the paint cans, spilling them over the floors. The bottoms of my feet become sticky with the substance as I trek back to continue my journey up.

Up and up I go, past floors I have never been to. The lights grow dim in my dream house. I can feel dawn approaching, and know that my time exploring will soon come to an end. I have to get to the top, before it is painted over and closed to me forever. The elevator screeches to a halt, and the doors slide open.

In the hallway, the lights flicker as they always did before the vitamins and paint and fluorescents. My knees tremble with excitement as I step off the elevator. Everything is as it should be in my dream house. These walls are painted with murals and bright colors that send my heart into a flutter. But it is too soon when the sun breaks the horizon and I am forced back to my room.

That day, they notice something different about me, even though I try to hide it. The man with the thick glasses and slick gray hair asks me questions.

Did I take my vitamins? How many rooms did I visit last night?

I curse myself and then realize I never wiped off my feet. With terror, I check the bottoms of my socks but find no traces of the white paint I kicked over the previous night.

The man eyes me suspiciously.

He asks me what I am looking for.

I tell him the truth, that I should have paint on my feet.

He knows I have been to a floor that is off limits. He seems upset, but stays composed.

In a quiet voice, that I have to strain to hear, he tells me something I have heard many times before.

I am the only one who can enter my dream house, it was constructed for me years ago to help me. The reason it is so large is because it must house all of them; each and every dream. A person will have close to 10,000 dreams in his or her life time. For each dream, a room is made and the door shut when it is over. The lights go out on the floor when it is full, leaving my house dark, except for the white walls and fluorescent lights.

He says that those are my problems. He says that I live in my dream house.

But I don't see it as a problem. Doesn't everyone want to live in their dream house?

The Best of the Brine

Haunted

Today was a day just like any other. It started and ended the same as the 9,028 days before it. The sun came up, made it’s never changing journey across the azure sky, and dipped quietly behind the pale horizon. There were 24 hours, 1440 minutes, and 86,400 seconds in this day. Babies were brought wailing into the world, people were sent to meet their maker, but most people went about their business with no second thought to this single day. Just one day among thousands.

But for me, this was not a day like any other.

Today was the day I died and I did not go to meet my maker. Going to meet the almighty would be like being born all over again, and that would mean not remembering anything from this too short life of mine. And forgetting is unacceptable.

Forgetting would mean not being able to remember her. And not being able to remember her-her smile, her eyes, the gentle slope of her neck- is the worst kind of blasphemy I can think of.

I’m not stupid. I understand that what I have here is not any real kind of life. It's not even a proper death for that matter. I know can never really have her. I can only watch. Not that my watching will make any difference; no matter what I see, I can never do anything about it.

I’m not stupid. I don’t expect to suddenly take control like some Patrick Swayze wannabe, and be able to commune with those I have left behind. Or rather, those I was supposed to leave behind. Cause I’m still here. And I’m staying. And that is how it will remain, for as long as… well. God knows how long.

And until then, I intend to be a watcher. Her watcher. I am sure I will see things that I don’t want to. Someday in the future she will find someone new. And that will hurt. It will hurt more than dying.

Which, now that I mention it, didn’t hurt much at all. I was driving my car, thinking that I didn’t really want Indian food for dinner, but she managed to persuade me, like always. She had Lady Gaga cranked to full volume, even though I am not what one would call Lady Gaga’s biggest fan. She was laughing. I was laughing.

Then there was the blast of a horn and light exploded across the windshield, and then? Then, I was gone. Just like that. And she is still here. Grieving for a man she thinks is lost. Her hands are clutching a tissue between her knees, and her forehead is resting on the surface of her wooden dining room table. Her shoulders stopped shaking from sobs some time ago, but she is still crying. Leaking. Tears are falling from her eyes, but she is too exhausted to really cry.

“Tom.”

She says my name. Hope does not flutter in my chest because I know she cannot see me. She doesn’t say anything else either, to worn out to do anything but leak, and whisper my name. It’s almost enough to make me regret my decision. Almost.

She would be so pissed if she knew. She would throw a massive fit, outraged that I chose to forsake my afterlife in favor of following her around like a pathetic ghost-stalker. If she knew, she would demand I change my mind. She would banish me from her presence. She would probably try to hurt me, force me to move on.

But she won't get the chance to do any of these things, because she’ll never know.

I walk behind her. I want to put my hand on her shoulder, to comfort her, but I know that is against the rules.

Not that she will be able to feel my hand, or even sense my presence. But I will be touching her while at the same time unable to feel her. And that is enough to undo me. It is my own restriction. If I tell myself I am not allowed to touch her, I will never suffer the heartache of not being able to feel her.

She walked away from the accident untouched. I like to think that I was a buffer, but in reality I know that it was just luck. I know her well enough to guess that it is tearing her up inside-why me instead of her?

She sighs.

“Why.”

I expected this. People do this when they lose someone they love. But I don’t get my hopes up. I know she doesn’t know I’m there. These are rhetorical questions, meant to hang in the air unanswered.

“Why did you do this? It’s so unfair!” Her voice breaks on the last word and she swallows.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.” A flood of tears. God, I hate seeing her cry. It’s so wrong for her to cry. She was always so happy, so whole, and it seems unnatural for her to suddenly be so broken. I turn away.

She stands, wiping her tears on her sleeve, and I wonder if she has finally exhausted herself enough to go to bed. It’s almost 2:00 am.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” she says again. Her voice shakes, but she doesn’t cry. At least not until, “God, Tom.”

I know she can’t see me, and I know she doesn’t know I’m there. I walk into the kitchen, and she sags back down on her chair.

“Why did you leave?”

I wonder when anger will replace grief. That has to be easier to handle than this. This is torture. Self inflicted, of course. I chose to stay. But torture nonetheless.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be!” she says a final time. I turn, looking around the door frame.

“How could you do this? How could you be so selfish?” I sigh. And then:

“You were supposed to go.”

I stare.

“You weren’t supposed to stay, Tom. Why did you stay?”

I look down at myself. She doesn’t know I’m here. I’m not stupid, I’m not some Patrick Swayze wannabe who thinks I’ll suddenly be able to commune with those I’ve left behind.

Impossibly, her eyes find mine. “You needn’t look so surprised.”

But then, I didn’t leave them behind, did I?

Best of the Brine

Can't Have One Without The Other


Your name is David and you are between the ages of 18 and 24 years old.

You watch me.

Today you take your time when you follow me home, being careful not to alert me to your presence. Your shadow falls behind you, eerie and cold on the pavement. Rain, just light enough to lend a chill to the air, settles on your leather jacket. The black material creaks as you walk forward. With great care and anticipation, you slip your gloves over your fingers, squeezing your hands into fists. You know that I do not notice you. Stealth is my only companion tonight on the lonely walk home.

A street light flickers above your head, and for just a moment you consider aborting your plan. But it is such a good plan. You can't resist the urge to keep going. The end will be so very sweet.

Your boot lands in a small puddle, sending droplets of water into the night air like an explosion. They reflect the light like diamonds, throwing miniature rainbows in all directions. You think they are beautiful, but not as beautiful as the way the vein in my neck pulsates with rich, dark blood. You want to see it explode just like the puddle of water underneath your foot. The liquid will coat your fingers, turning your gloves into red velvet.

You bury your excitement in your current task: watching me clumsily unlock my door. With great effort, you let your walls fall down and begin to let yourself fall in love with me. It is in the way some of my hair has fallen from my pony tail, so I tuck it behind my ear. You find yourself fascinated by the smudge of ink that has gone unnoticed all day along my jawline. The love swells in your chest until you are consumed by it. You know that without it, your next actions would have little to no effect. Because you can't hate someone without loving them first.

The door clicks shut behind me, and you know that I won't lock it for another forty-five seconds. When I first arrive home, I always take off my jacket, shoes and turn on lights. Then, I swing my purse over a chair in the living room and place my keys in the pretty little ceramic bowl decorated by whales and seaweed my niece gave to me at Christmas. It is only then that I turn around towards the door to ensure my safety for the rest of the evening.

But the hallway is darkened by your shadow. You lock the door for me and commit to memory the complete shock and terror on my face. Words begin to form on my lips, but you know what I will say. You have heard the pleas, the cries, the accusations dozens of times before. I am no different than any of the others, except that I am now and you still love me.

It's only when you see that I have wiped away the smudge and brushed my hair back into place that your love is lost. You think back to the puddle of water and all that blood pumping through my body. Red velvet comes to mind as you watch me run towards the kitchen. But I will not escape you tonight.

As you tie me down, you introduce yourself. I don't hear you, because my mind has already left this place.

You spill some of my blood and wait for it to pool.

Splash, you think to yourself as you pound your fist into the puddle. But the explosion is not what you wanted; you need more.

You wait, and watch me.

Oh goodie, the new post editor is up and running. I can add video and pictures much easier now! WOOOO

Happy Labor Day Weekend everybody!

Best of the Brine

Carceral

I loved my job. I loved the people I worked with everyday. The window above my desk always had sunlight and a great view of the gardens behind the building. It was a happy place to work, even if it wasn't perfect. Thursdays were cake day, where someone brought in baked goods every week for the office.

It all started on a Thursday.

Now when I think about pink and white frosted cupcakes, it is all I can do to not become violently ill. My life changed on a cake day when scarlet blood spattered onto the perfectly decorated pastries, making them a gory reminder of how living should never been taken for granted.

My first memory of that day was when Jenny bounced in, carrying her platter of community cupcakes. She told us it was a new recipe and that if we didn't like them she wouldn't be offended. I flashed her a reassuring smile and wished her a good morning. That was when I could still give reassurances. When I could still smile and mean it.

The rest of the morning wasn't very memorable until I looked down at the clock on my computer and saw that it was 11:15, time for a short coffee break. I stood, stretching my muscles and walked to the small kitchen, the smell of much needed caffeine driving me forward. It wasn't until I clinked the coffee pot back in place that I realized something wasn't right.

The phones, which usually rang off the hook, were silent. I stared down into the black liquid in my favorite cup. Small waves rippled across the surface, making me want to dive in, head first. Jenny rounded the corner quickly, her eyes bright and excited.

"There is something wrong with the Internet connection. Maybe they'll send us home if we can't get any work done!" She clapped her hands and giggled, taking a step back from the kitchen into the hall. "Have you tried a cupcake yet?" she asked

I eyed the treats on the counter. "No," I reached for one "but I think it's time to-"

A horrified scream that could have only belonged to Beatrice cut me off, but then abruptly ended after a few loud pops. Jenny's eyebrows knitted together in concern. My brain was too slow to process what the noises had been. If I had only reacted sooner, I think Jenny's brains might not have landed on the beautiful pink and white cupcakes. I could have pulled her into the protection of the kitchen. But instead, I was reaching for a cupcake, instead of my friend.

The Best of the Brine

Below are the lyrics to the song "Wonderful Tonight" by Eric Clapton. It's a beautiful song, and I decided to write down my take on it. The short story follows the lyrics.

It's late in the evening
She's wondering what clothes to wear
She puts on her make up
And brushes her long blonde hair
And then she asks me
Do I look alright
And I say yes, you look wonderful tonight
We go to party
And everyone turns to see
This beautiful lady
That's walking around with me
And then she asks me
Do you feel alright
And I say yes, I feel wonderful tonight
I feel wonderful
Because I see the love light in your eyes
And the wonder of it all
Is that you just don't realize
How much I love you
It's time to go home now
And I've got an aching head
So I give her the car keys
She helps me to bed
And then I tell her
As I turn out the light
I say my darling, you were wonderful tonight
Oh my darling, you were wonderful tonight.

-Eric Clapton


"Tonight"

The last of the light has disappeared from the sky, telling me that we will be late. But that's alright, because I am in no rush to be anywhere that is not with you. I watch from the hallway as you enter and exit the closet, throwing different variations of the same outfit onto the bed. This is one of my favorite things you do. Thank you for doing it tonight.

I settle on the bed and watch you flick on the light to your make up mirror. The light is bright and you blink back a tear. With eyes closed, I imagine catching that tear on my the tip of my finger and wiping it from your cheek. When I open my eyes again, your sleek black brush is combing through your long blonde hair. Its those simple everyday motions I have come to adore about you, and it feels like I could watch you getting ready for hours without being tired of it.

You turn your chin so that I see your profile against the harsh light of the mirror. I watch your lips move gracefully and you ask, "How do I look?"

And you know what I'm going to say, just as you always do.

You giggle, biting your bottom lip. "We should leave now."

Best of the Brine

The Disconnect

I am not like other people, yet I am exactly the same.

From the color of my hair and eyes, to the tone of my skin. We all look similar now, so that it is easier to fit in. Genetic modifications became the thing to do a thousand years ago and have never been reversed. We have hardware as well, installed before birth.

On every world we inhabit, we are connected. The chips in our brains allow us access to each other with only a thought. Technological advances are the veins that connect us and keep us alive. If a person is to disconnect from the Network and every other human soul, then his or her life is forfeit and over. In this world, disconnection is the end.

I have looked through the archives of the time before The Great Connection and I envy those people. They could choose to connect when they wanted. No longer. I am different because I crave that disconnect.

But it is the one thing I cannot have.

So, I have found a way to experience it the only way I can without ending my own life.

I stare into the eyes of my victim. His name does not matter, because once he is disconnected his identity will vanish. I relish in these moments just before I unplug them.

He lies paralyzed on the floor of his apartment and I make the incision to disable his chip. His blood spills onto the plush carpet and I cringe. I have always hated blood, it is just so dirty. With shaking hands I inject the virus into his chip in order to unplug him from the Network.

The effect is immediate. A sense of urgency rises in his eyes. He doesn't realize what I have done at first because he can still sense someone. What he doesn't know is that the person is me. I have left his connection with me alive so that I might experience his disconnection with him, but happily I will not experience the end result.

After an hour, he is able to move and stands up. He lumbers towards me and opens his mouth. It is awkward and strange, for he has never formed a full sentence with this vocal chords. He simply hasn't had the need when every one is inside his head.

Seeing that I will not help him, he heads to the door of his apartment. Just like every other victim, I know he will not be able to get past the lock.

This man has never learned how to unlock his own door. In fact, this man has never learned a single thing that will help him survive the next three days. He will not know how to cook, clean himself properly or how to turn on the faucet for water. Just like every other person I have unplugged, he will go through the routine of his every day schedule, but will not be able to do any of it. And that is where the disconnection becomes deadly.

In a world where the Network tells you how to function, being without it means certain death.

I watch him for days until finally he collapses and struggles to breath. He is afraid and confused.

Then comes my favorite part. The ultimate disconnect.

A shiver goes down my spine and the deed is done.

I have often wondered why I am different than the rest. My answer was found in the archives under the title, Serial Killers Eliminated Under The Great Connection.

They thought we would be gone after everyone was in our heads. They thought they'd be able to weed us out.

They were wrong.

The Best of the Brine

Plan Your Trip Well



I used to love vacations. And the water.

But when I think about them now, sickness overwhelms me.

It started three weeks ago, when my parents dropped Tyler (my boyfriend), Callie (my best friend), Matt (Callie's boyfriend)and I off in Miami for a cruise. At 22 years old, we were going to have the time of our lives. We documented the entire saga of boarding and took reaction shots of each other as we entered the room.

As my camera dies a slow death from lack of batteries, I idly flip through those first days of the cruise. Back when I loved vacations. When life was nothing but one margarita after another. The screen flickers once, twice, and then goes black. The faces of my friends are gone, and I can't get them back.

The glint from the water hurts my eyes, so I shield them. It reminds me that I lost my sunglasses. Callie had them last. But I don't know where she is. I wish I had my sunglasses. But more than that, I wish I could forget everything that has happened.

A Short Fiction!

Hey everyone! Today's post is a short fiction written by us in order to enter us into a contest for awesome stuff. The prompt for the story is the picture below from "The Princess and the Pea". Enjoy!!



The Perishable Pea

This is the tragic tale of how I perished.

It was not a noble death, for no pea dreams of being squashed beneath several hundred pounds of feathers, fabric, and one very finicky female. But the voice of a pea is never heard.

I had dreams, aspirations! To be savored between the molars of royalty! To fancy the tongue of a duke, to tickle the taste buds of a queen! That is the dream of every pea. It was all the gossip in our burlap sack. We pondered what dishes we would be chosen for. Would we make the acquaintance of carrots and celery in a savory stew or garnish the king's fine roast? I myself wanted to be featured in the self-titled Split Pea Soup. But it was not meant to be, not for this poor little pea.

Instead, i was stolen from my glory and whisked away from the kitchen of my dreams to a place most forbidden; eating in bed is a most egregious crime.Forever exiled in shame under a mountain of mattresses so great. Each night more were piled upon me until finally I split, but not in a soup-no, not a soup. Right down the middle, through and through till my insides came out and with all my might, I screamed.

"I implore thee, what was my crime?! What heinous act did I commit to deserve such punishment?"

But none heard the words that rolled from my dieing lips.

In the last few moments before my departure, I pondered a question most distressing. Who would remember me?

In all the world, I was the only perishable pea.

The Best of the Brine

A Gravel Road



The gravel crunched beneath our feet, each sound sending tiny explosions up my shins and into my thighs. It made me feel alive, but at the same time, it frightened the hell out of me. We had to be quiet, but the ground full of white and grey rock made that impossible. I couldn’t see the end, it simply stretched out before us like a snake with no head.

And we couldn’t turn around. No, we couldn’t do that.

A rustling of the leaves created by a thin cold wind made me misstep. I fell forward into the gravel road, catching myself with my hands. The pain of the small rocks digging into my palms was immediate and gut-wrenching. When I sat up on my knees and turned my shaking hands over to inspect the damage, it occurred to me that I could have just killed us both.

Little red splattered rocks were stuck in my skin, like a mosaic of blood and stone. Blood dripped from my palms to the ground, staining the rock below. My eyes hesitantly travelled upwards until they met with Jon’s.

His face was twisted into an expression I had seen only once before. My heart dropped and I mouthed the words, I’m sorry. In some small way, I was relieved. Because our endless journey down the gravel road would be over soon. But perhaps not soon enough.