Tag: books

Young Dumb And 21

A Crime Fiction

Young, dumb, and 21. That’s what we were. We were of the age of invincibility. There was nothing we could not do, and if it was wrong, we would never get caught. We could drink all night and get up for work the next morning. There was no limit to the trouble we could get into or the amount of alcohol we could consume. As was the night of October 28, 1990.

Receiving an invitation to one of Brody’s parties was something everyone bragged about. So when we received ours, we were ecstatic! I called Cheryl and Lisa and told them the news. They, too, were just as excited. We asked ourselves if we should invite Christy, weighing the pros and cons. If she finds out we went to Brody’s without her, she will be so mad at us. She’s been wanting to go to one of his parties for a long time. But if we invite her, she’s only going to regret it in the morning, then ghost us for weeks while she gets right with God and aligns with her church and parents’ values. With that last thought, we decided not to tell her about the party.

The three of us pull up to Brody’s huge, lustrous mansion, the lights illuminating the circular drive. The valet took the keys to my bug and drove away.

“Wow, this is bigger than I imagined!” I said.

‘No, I thought it was going to be way bigger and way prettier.”

Lisa, wanting to keep the peace, said it was exactly as she imagined.

Once inside, a large staircase led upstairs, and people were sitting at the bottom. To our left, French doors opened into a huge room full of people. Brody had a DJ, and the room was dark, with strobe lights that danced like shooting stars. There were coolers and kegs and bottles of alcohol everywhere. We each grabbed something to drink and started mingling. We didn’t know anyone here. So, we regrouped in a corner.

“Do you know anyone?” Lisa asked.

“No. Do you?” Cheryl replied.

“Me either, this is weird. Well, the valet took my keys, and I’m starting to feel this drink, so we may as well make the best of it. Let’s go explore.” I pulled out my phone.

“Should we text Christy the address?”

Lisa shook her head. “You know how she gets. She’ll have fun tonight, then spend the next three weeks feeling guilty, ghosting us while she gets right with God.”

Cheryl nodded. “I can’t deal with another guilt trip.”

I put my phone away. We left the room with fresh drinks inside 24-oz tumblers with lids and straws.

“Wow, taste this!” I extended my cup to Lisa. Cheryl was a germaphobe. And shook her head no at the thought of sharing straws.

“Oh, that’s good. Here, try mine.”  Lisa’s drink tasted of kiwi and pineapple with a lot of vodka.

Huge portraits of people we didn’t recognize hung throughout the house, and the bathrooms were bigger than our bedrooms. We found two kitchens and a room that I later learned was a butler pantry, equipped with a sink and fridge.

Before heading outside, we stopped in the ballroom to grab another drink. Bodies were dancing provocatively, a good indication that they were heavily inebriated. Cheryl wanted to stay and dance, Lisa and I wanted to go outside to the garden, so we parted ways.

We linked our arms together and headed outside, swaying and stumbling as we walked. The giant hedges arched into an opening, and we entered with the courage that alcohol gives. It was dark; the full moon illuminated the path before us.

“Shit, we’re going to get lost.”

Lisa burst out laughing. “It’s not like we will be stuck in here forever; someone will eventually come looking for us.”

“But what if they don’t?”

We stopped laughing and stared at each other for a moment, then burst into another sort of laughter. The kind that pushes away fear.

“Well, this is a dead end, I told you we should have gone right. You always go right. That’s the only way to go.” She scolded.

I hated to admit she might be right this time. So, we turned around.

“But we have to go left this time because we didn’t go right the last time.”

Lisa rolled her eyes, and we went left. “Ugh, this drink is getting to me. It was way too sweet. I’m going to set it right here. That way, when we come back out, we will see it and know we are going the right way.”

Onward we walked, hands grazing the hedge’s edge. When we came to a fork, Lisa reminded me to go right. And this time I listened. I set my drink down before turning right, knowing our drunk brains will need all the help they can get.

We stumbled through the maze, giggling. It felt like forever, dead end after dead end, but we were having too much fun to care.

Finally, we found the end of the maze. It opened into a garden full of roses and a gazebo in the center. There was a water fountain with a stream circling around. It was heaven.

“Wow, this is amazing. Have you ever seen anything like this?”

“Once, but it was Colorado when I hiked to a waterfall. But this is man-made, so it makes it more surprising.”

We walked to the gazebo and noticed someone was slumped on the ground.

“Who do you think that is?”

“I have no idea. In case you forgot, we don’t know anyone here. “ Lisa snorted.

“Hi. Do you mind if we join you?”

There was silence. I wondered if they were passed out and decided to check on them.

We stepped onto the gazebo floor and realized it was Christy.

“Christy? I am so glad you came!” I said.

Lisa’s eyes were huge. She stopped, her jaw dropping to the floor.

When I turned back to Christy, who was still silent, I thought maybe she was mad at us for not inviting her. Then I noticed her hair was matted to her head. I grabbed my phone and shined it on her. Her hair was matted to her face with dark, sticky, reddish brown crust. I stood up and gasped. I shined my light down her body. Her skirt was pulled up and her panties were tangled around her ankles.

Blood was everywhere. It was on me too. Lisa was frozen, silent from shock. I stumbled backward,

“Oh my god! I she….” I couldn’t bring myself to say, “…dead?”

There lay our friend Christy, whom we chose not to invite, in a pool of her own blood.

“It’s all my fault,” Lisa sobbed. “I’m the one who said we shouldn’t invite her. I said she’d kill the vibe. If we had invited her, she would still be alive.”

In the distance, I could still hear the music from the house. People laughing, dancing, living.

Positively Divine

What positive events have taken place in your life over the past year?

This year has been one of the most unexpected beautiful years of my life, full of surprises, healing, and quiet miracles I did not always see coming.

It began with the joy of the birth of grandchild number ten and the sweet anticipation of number eleven already on the way. Every new little heartbeat in this family reminds me how wide my world is and how love continues to grow around me whether I am ready or not.

Our third short-term rental went online and stays booked. It amazes me to watch what I dreamed of into existence, and watch it take off and thrive. There is a quiet pride in that, a feeling of finally seeing hard work turn into something real.

Then came Colorado. Two weeks of pure beauty, with every turn revealing something that made me pause and breathe a little deeper. I did not realize how much I needed that trip until I was standing there, surrounded by mountains that made everything inside me feel a little clearer.

But the biggest changes this year happened within me.

After years of gut problems, I finally discovered the physical cause. That alone felt like a breakthrough I had been waiting for far too long. Therapy opened an even deeper door. I began to uncover the emotional weight I had been carrying and the trauma that had settled into my body. I started learning how to set boundaries and how to listen to the parts of myself I had ignored. I connected with my inner child, the version of me who needed comfort and understanding, and I finally began to give her that.

Along the way, I started feeling more comfortable in my own skin. Not the person I thought I was supposed to be, but the person I actually am. This shift feels real, even if it is still unfolding.

And perhaps one of the most meaningful steps I am taking this year is working on my book proposal. I’m not  just dreaming about it, I’m doing it. This alone feels like reclaiming a part of myself I thought I lost.

When I look back, this year was not simply positive. It was transformative. It was a year of returning to myself in ways I never expected.

What I Should Have Said Was…

What I Should Have Said Was…

What I should have said was:
“Oh wow! That’s a unique name. Where did you come up with it?”

But instead, I said:

“P?? That’s a boy’s name.”

My oldest son and his wife were expecting their first child, my first granddaughter. I remember the night they called to share the fantastic news that they were having a girl.

“Do you have any names picked out?” I asked.

With pride and excitement, they told me the name they had chosen.
In my old-lady shock, I blurted out:

“P? Why do you want to name her that? That’s a boy’s name!”

I didn’t realize how in love they were with that name. To my embarrassment, I later learned the error of my disappointing words. What I should have said was:

“Oh wow, that’s really cute.”

Even though at the time I had never heard that name used for a girl, I’ve met a few girls with that name since then. I’ll tell you what, when I hear baby name announcements now, I say things like:

“Ohhh, that’s unique!” or

“Sweet!”

Or, I immediately look it up to see what the name means.

Irie means God’s grace looking down on us.

It was too late to look up the meaning of “P.” It didn’t matter how hard I tried to smooth it over; I said what I said, and what has been said cannot be unsaid.

Turns out “P” means keeper of the parks and nature, the perfect name for a little girl who loves the outdoors. Like a wildflower growing in an unexpected place, her name bloomed in my heart, slowly, then all at once.

These days, I keep my Grandma mouth in check. I’ve learned the art of the polite pause, long enough to Google and nod appreciatively.

I’ve also learned that names, like people, grow on you. And sometimes, the name you couldn’t understand becomes the name you can’t imagine living without.
Now, when I call out to little “P” and she turns around with that curious sparkle in her eyes, I think…

“What a perfect name for such a wild and wonderful little girl.”

Unwanted Guest

Sitting up, I squinted toward the clock, trying to see if it was late enough to get up. Late enough — the quiet internal permission slip. If it’s before 3 a.m., it’s too early. 3 a.m. itself is borderline — only viable if I’d gone to bed early. But anything after 3… preferably closer to 4… means I’ve officially crossed into the “acceptable to rise” zone.

4:12 a.m. Glowing digits. That was late enough—time to begin.

I moved like a ghost, easing myself upright and reaching for my phone with slow, steady fingers. The strap hooks — those cursed, tiny clinks of metal — threatened to tap the glass nightstand. But I was careful. Every sound at this hour stretches out, echoing as if it’s trying to wake the house. Success. No clink.

Phone in hand, I padded the three steps to the bathroom door. The first hurdle: Don’t let the acrylic nails tap the resin door. Second: Turn the knob just right. Not too fast, not too slow. Just enough so the door didn’t yawn open with a creak that would snap the peace in half.

Inside, I turned to the next challenge — closing the door silently behind me. I rotated the knob while pulling it shut, inch by inch, not daring to breathe. Almost… there— Pop!

Damn. Not quite silent. But done.

I didn’t turn on the light. I never do. My husband’s eyelids are basically tissue paper, and any sudden brightness sends his entire body lurching awake like he’s been shot. So instead, I thumbed the flashlight on my phone and crept to the toilet. The usual. Routine. Human.

After finishing, I reached into the closet and grabbed a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt — easy, uncommitted choices. Something I learned in therapy: not every decision has to be made immediately. And choosing an outfit for the day was certainly not a decision I needed to make under the glare of a cell phone light at 4 a.m.

Now… slippers. Where did I leave them?

I only wear slippers with rubber soles. Just in case I have to go outside. I let myself go barefoot exactly once a week — right after the house cleaner comes. I love that soft slide across freshly mopped tile. But the rest of the time? Barriers. Always barriers.

Ah — there they were. Tucked by the sink. I must’ve slipped out of them last night with future-me in mind.

Left foot in. Then right. Bent the left knee, latched the ankle strap. Bent the right knee, latched—

And then I felt it.

Soft. Furry. A brush of cool movement, right across the top of my foot.

At first, I thought maybe it was just a bit of tissue or something loose, stuck between slipper and skin. I wiggled my foot.

It moved. It moved more than I did.

That wasn’t fuzz.

That wasn’t normal.

That wasn’t right.

A chill clawed its way up my spine as I shook my foot again — faster this time, harder — trying to convince myself it was just lint, just a trick of sensation. But no. No, it moved with intent. With awareness. And it was cool to the touch. Fuzz isn’t cool. Fuzz isn’t… alive.

I froze for a breath that was entirely too long. Then panic took over.

I jerked my leg. The strap held tight.

I stomped — once, twice — thinking maybe I could crush whatever was inside without having to see it.

It didn’t fall off. It clung.

I reached down, yanked the strap off, and kicked the slipper across the bathroom. It landed with a loud slap. I flicked the flashlight beam toward it, the light shaking in my hand—

And there it was.

Sprawled halfway out of the slipper. Brown. Furry. Legs twitching. About the size of a 50-cent piece, maybe more if you count the horribly mobile legs.

A spider.

I stood, breathing like I’d just run a mile uphill, heartbeat jackhammering. I didn’t care about waking anyone anymore. I flipped on the light.

I needed confirmation.

With trembling fingers, I took a photo. My only defense in the moment was identification — like naming a demon before it devours you.

AI said it was a wolf spider. A hunter. Not venomous to humans, but aggressive and fast. Curious. The kind that moves toward you, not away.

I stared at the picture while my body still buzzed with the memory of its legs across my skin.

Then I grabbed the slipper — the safe one — and with a single, hard thump, I ended it.

Afterward, I just stood there, breathing in the silence, surrounded by a sleeping house and shadows that felt just a little too aware. The flashlight still on. The image still open on my phone.

I thanked whatever silent force spared me a bite.

Because that spider had been on my foot. For too long.
Moving.
Thinking.

Waiting.