“Foreign Substances.”
She looked askance at him and quirked an eyebrow.
“Foreign Substances?”
He frowned and glared at her.
“Yes, Foreign Substances.” He said it as if he thought her an idiot. “What else would you call it, Ms. Flint?”
She grinned and placed a sassy hand on her hip.
“Well, I’d call it dog shit, Earl. But that’s just me.”
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I entered the deserted home and flicked on the entry lights as I shut the door behind me. Laying my briefcase and keys on the kitchen counter, I walked through the house turning on lights. My client would arrive soon and I wanted to make sure things looked inviting and smelled pleasant after the house had been shut up for so long.
Entering the master bedroom, I noticed the doorknob was loose. Bending to take a look at the issue, I heard a creak behind me and turned quickly. Seeing nothing and no one in the room with me, I turned back to the doorknob. There it was again. Closer this time. I stood up slowly and looked over my shoulder. As I turned, a cold wind blew past and through me, taking my breath away.
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I knew I was awake, but I couldn’t see a thing. My eyes were open but everything was black. I lay perfectly still, testing my body to see if I could move. I could wiggle my toes and lift my legs. Every movement hurt. I raised an arm to feel my face. I touch something soft and spongy. Bandages. My face was completely covered in bandages.
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She scowled as her adviser talked. Thoughts ran through her head, unhindered.
“You’re the moron. I’m not stupid. I know what I know.”
She never should have told him about the voices she hears when no one else hears them. The people who talk to her that no one else can hear or see. She should have kept that to herself.
“Know what, Mr. Peterson?” She blurted out in the middle of his monologue, “I think I’m cured.”
Grabbing her book bag, Karen flounced out of the office without so much as a ‘Good Day.’
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Weary from a long day of no leads, I was hardly in the mood to take Mark’s suggestion, but I had a few of my own.
I quirked an eyebrow at him and said, “So?”
“So? What do you mean, so?”
“I mean ‘So’, Mark. So what? So he had a gun. So he had no alibi. So he had a flimsy motive. So fucking what. I’m telling you, he’s NOT THE GUY.” I slammed my palm onto the desk for emphasis.
Mark, unimpressed, said, “I’m bringing him in.”
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I don’t know where the time went. One minute, I was sitting in the waiting room and the next minute I was walking out to my car. It was hot outside, but I wore a long jacket and a sweater. I didn’t remember wearing that to the office. The sun was high in the afternoon sky. I blinked, realizing my sunglasses were gone. Stopping by my car, I realized I had no idea what had happened in that office. I had no memory of the appointment or the outcome. A chill ran down my spine and I turned to look at the building. I saw a curtain move in the upstairs window and a pale hand disappear from view.
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The framework of the building was such that when it was finished, the house would be an octagon. The eccentric owner had requested that all the windows face only to the East. There were to be no windows on the North, South or West sides of the house. Eric thought it was odd, but then, he had worked with plenty odd, rich customers in the past.
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I watched the lemonade pour from the pitcher. The condensation dripped down onto the table. I smelled the citrus juice in the ice cold drink and my mouth started to water. The ice cubes clinked together in the glass. I looked up at Sandra. She smiled, but the gesture never touched her eyes.
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The cathedral was packed with people and noisy. All around me, there were people with blankets wrapped around their shoulders. They were wet from the rain, their hair stuck to their scalps, their eyes huge with shock and confusion. I searched the crowd, walking slowly from person to person, looking into their eyes, turning them around to see their faces. They were hugging each other and offering condolences for lost loved ones. It was like a horror movie come true.
I was near the alter when the double doors blew open. The wind rushed in, bringing with it the smell of rain and wet leaves.
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All my life, all I have ever wanted to be was a writer. When I was a teenager, I had stories and poems published. I thought that was a great start. But when I started to get serious about wanting to be a writer for a living, as a career, I got a lot of negativity from adults. Not my parents. My parents were always supportive of anything I wanted to be. My Mother, herself, is a wonderful writer. But through all my research and all my discussions with people in ‘the biz’, I got discouraged and I felt that my writing was never going to be good enough to be published on a serious scale. So I stopped writing for a long time. I threw away all my tear sheets, all my copies of publications where my materials had appeared. I got rid of all of it. I didn’t see the point on dreaming a dream that was never going to come true.
In my early twenties, I started writing again. Again the negativity of the industry came at me.
“It’s really hard to get published.”
“You have to know someone.”
“You have to have an agent.”
So many things were thrown at me. I continued to write, for myself, because I love to write. I kept notebooks and binders of my work. But I didn’t seek to have anything published. I kept it to myself. I shared my writing with those close to me, but at that time in my life, it wasn’t for the public. It was for me.
Still in my early twenties, I suffered events that broke my soul. I had always tried to see the best in people and tried to believe that no one was truly evil. I was proven wrong and my entire view on the world was changed. My heart and soul was truly broken and I stopped writing altogether for many years. I believed that there was nothing in me that anyone else would want to read. Nothing that could come from myself, deep down, would be any good.
Several years later, I met my husband. Through his gentle guidance and support I slowly began to heal. Through the births of my children, I found joy again and though still broken inside, I was able to love freely and trust once again. Ten years later, I am ready to write again.
It occurred to me recently that all through those years of hearing negative thoughts on the writing profession, no one had ever told me that my writing was not good enough. No one had ever told me that I was not good enough. But through their words, that’s what I heard. It’s what I believed.
I may post other things on this blog that do not pertain to writing, but those things hide the fact that I put my heart on here for you to read each time I post a OneWord. Each time I post an article or writing for you to read, I am asking for your support. Silently seeking your approval and your acceptance of me as a writer.
So, thank you. Thank you to those who Like my OneWord postings. Thank you to those who read and enjoy my writings. And thank you to those who know me personally and support my dreams through your friendship and love.
I am very excited to announce here on my blog, that I have dedicated my next several months and years to writing books that are long overdue. I am working on a piece of fiction, where I am participating in the Camp NaNoWriMo for June. (I’m behind in my word count right now, but I’ll finish it, I promise!) The other piece I am beginning work on is non-fiction and is very close to my heart. But, I can’t reveal the topic just yet. I hope you will all wait excitedly for the next several months until my book(s) are complete.
Wish me luck!
Happy Writing! 🙂
~ Eileen
Eileen Maki 