Tag: short-story

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.

I STEPPED ON A SNAKE IN MY CHACO’S

How Compulsions Start

According to my husband, I spend too much money on Amazon, and for once, I had to agree. I blame it on COVID, like all the other not-so-great habits we picked up and some not-so-bad ones, too. “Since COVID, I haven’t been able to…. When COVID hit, I… bought groceries online, and now I can’t stop….started drinking more… stopped going to church… stopped exercising… started exercising more… stopped going out… started writing….” COVID has been blamed for the reason we are doing whatever we are doing.

My Amazon purchases were so bad that the driver became accustomed to delivering packages to my house; if a neighbor ordered something on Amazon, they would automatically assume it was for me. I had to constantly redeliver Amazon boxes to our neighbors because they were mistakenly delivered to my home. I do not recall ever receiving one of my missing packages from a neighbor. Apparently, karma only works one way on our street, and I just want my slippers!

One morning, after unboxing a delivery, I stepped out into the garage to dispose of the garbage. As I stepped off the bottom step, I landed right on what I thought was fallen debris, perhaps an Amazon box. It felt firm under my foot, which left me a little confused. When I turned around, I realized I had stepped onto a snake. This snake was about 3 feet long and 3 inches in circumference. It was a fatty. Later, I would learn it was just a harmless water snake. I jumped back and screamed. Remembering what my kids said about me whenever I yelled at them.

“Mom, you can’t yell, we can’t take you serious.”

Yelling and screaming weren’t things that came natural to me, and according to them and the snake, it didn’t sound right either. The snake looked confused, acting like it wanted to slither away. I stood motionless as well. I looked at the creature blocking the entrance to my door. The door was still open. Now I am afraid the dog might have heard my scream and come to see what was going on. Then I started to worry that my 14-year-old would come to investigate too.

At this point, my mom instincts kicked in, and I stopped screaming because I do not want them to be in harm’s way. I stand there, staring at the snake, it lying there, staring back at me. I move left; it moves left. I move right; it moves right. I move forward; it moves backward. It is like one of those moments when you and a stranger are trying to get through the same entrance, but neither of you is sure which way or which side the other will choose, and you keep choosing the same way.

I want to run into the house, but in front of the steps lies a humongous snake. I want to run outside the garage, but the path between me, the car, and the snake is far too narrow to chance it. So I start waving my arms in the “shooing” manner to encourage it to go outside. Instead of going outside, it decided to slither around the steps and coil up under the mop bucket left there earlier in the week to dry.

I immediately called my husband, “I just stepped on a snake in the garage, and I have my Chacos on.”

“What?”

“I just fucking stepped on a snake in the garage with open-toed sandals, and it is still in here!” I said, emphasizing each word.

He, hearing the panic in my voice, jumped in his truck, drove down from the shop, and took care of the snake.

This is one of those life-changing moments that alter the way you live your life. I’ve had a few of those moments, like when a giant wolf spider was in my slipper while I was trying to put it on. Like when there was a huge King snake on our back deck, mind you, this deck sits elevated about 8-10 feet off the ground, so I’m still trying to figure out how he got there. And then there was the time my husband found a copperhead in the garage on MY side of the car.

Fear doesn’t fix you; it just teaches you to move differently through the world. The Amazon boxes still arrive. But now I never walk into the garage without looking down. I shake out my slippers, scan the deck, and check every corner. COVID gave me one set of compulsions; a three-foot water snake gave me another.

I’m not sure which habits are worse.

A woman addicted to Prime

Bought boxes delivered on time

She stepped on a snake

In sandals—big mistake!

Now she checks every floor,

every time

GROUNDED

A Short Fictional Story

It was a beautiful sunny day with a few clouds against a bright blue sky. I loved looking up at the clouds while I walked—it was invigorating, almost like walking blindly, yet your eyes are wide open. I walked this path so many times that I did not need to look in front of me to know where I was going. So looking up at the clouds while I walked had become my favorite pastime, a game.

There was this one cloud in particular—it looked like Snoopy. Seeing it took me back to my childhood Christmases when Charlie Brown and Snoopy had their Christmas specials. Snoopy was one of my favorites. I loved it at the end, when Snoopy would be asleep on the top of his doghouse, with big heart floating away from him. I could tell he was loved, and he knew it.

The blue in the sky seemed bluer than usual. It wasn’t the standard gray-blue today. It was more of a robin’s egg blue. Vibrant and cheery. That reminded me—just the other day I’d found an actual robin’s egg on this very path, that perfect pale blue, delicate and whole. I’d stopped mid-stride, my foot hovering just above it, not wanting to crush something so beautiful. I’d stepped carefully around it and—

My foot landed on something soft.

I toppled forward, falling flat onto what felt like the cold seat of a car cushion.

Before I could get myself up, panic began to rise from within my bowels as I realized I had stumbled onto a person!

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.”

There was no reply.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?” I shook her shoulder as I scooted back and lifted to my knees.

The woman was face down and unresponsive. I didn’t know what to do! With trembling fingers, I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and dialed 911. Through my shaky voice, I told the dispatcher,

“There is a woman on Elm Street, and she’s unresponsive. She’s cold and her lips are blue.”

How did I not see her? So much for the cloud game. I had to forfeit today, or resign the team altogether.

Ambulance and police cars arrived, taking my story, asking me all kinds of questions. They didn’t understand how I couldn’t see her. How I just literally stumbled onto her. I guess they never daydreamed before either. I think they don’t realize what daydreaming is either. It’s like awake dreaming. You’re awake, you’re dreaming, but unaware of your surroundings. That was me looking at clouds, reminiscing about my childhood, while God knows what was happening around me.

Everything after became a blurry tunnel of questions and rustling uniforms, the paramedic’s clipboard pressed gently against my shoulder, a police officer’s voice gently corralling me to the side.

I kept apologizing, still explaining, though the explanation was nothing more than the fact that I’d been looking at the sky, like I always did. They led me away (I followed because it seemed like the right thing to do). There was no blood., the woman just looked like she’d laid down for a nap and forgot to get back up.

They took my information and then left me to myself, sitting on the curb while the medics checked for a pulse and shook their heads in a subtle, practiced way. The woman had been dead. Maybe for hours. Maybe since the night before. They zipped the lady up, loaded her into the ambulance, and drove away with their lights off. The blue sky had retreated behind a thickening layer of clouds, not that it mattered; I no longer wanted to look up at them.

That was the last thing I expected out of this walk. I remembered kicking that empty robin’s egg with my toe, the color, the way it shattered perfectly. I remembered my own mother’s hand on my shoulder, steering me away from the broken things on sidewalks.

One of the police officers, a big pale guy with a pink face, asked for my name.

“Chelsea,” I said, my voice shaky. “I’m sorry, I—I walk here all the time. I should’ve been paying attention.” I felt the need to say it, as if apologizing enough could excuse all of this.

I was looking at the clouds, that I’d been so caught up in shapes and memories that I’d missed a dead woman lying right in front of me. But it sounded stupid, selfish even. So I just shook my head.

The officer nodded, scribbling something in his notepad. “You did the right thing calling it in,” he said. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything else, but you’re free to go.”

I stood up slowly, my legs still unsteady. The street looked different now—smaller, darker, like someone had turned down the saturation. I walked home the long way, keeping my eyes on the pavement the whole time.

For weeks after, I couldn’t bring myself to look up. Every time I tried, I’d see her face instead of clouds, that awful stillness. My teammates asked where I’d been, why I’d missed practice. I told them I was sick, which wasn’t entirely a lie.

Eventually, I started walking that path again. I had to. But I kept my head down, counting cracks in the sidewalk, and noticed the weeds pushing through concrete. There was a whole world at my feet I’d never paid attention to before—ants carrying crumbs, dandelions growing in impossible places, the way light caught on broken glass.

I still think about the clouds sometimes. I miss them, the way they used to make me feel untethered and free. But I can’t go back to that, not entirely. Now, when I look up, I make sure I know where I’m standing first.

ODE TO PETE

ODE TO PETE

Ode to Pete

You can see the age in the white fur around his face.
Even old dogs get gray hair.

He’s stood watch over this home for so many years—
steady, loyal, patient.
He’s kept it safe while they were away,
and when they were home, he still kept watch.

He knows this is his family.
They belong to him.

Through the noise of the house—
the laughter, the shouting,
the running of little feet—
he knows his job.
He doesn’t need to be told.

He finds his spot on the old tree stump in the yard,
his throne, his lookout, his comfort.
The wind carries the world to him—
the familiar scents, the faintest hints of change.
He knows every smell, every sound.

His eyesight isn’t what it used to be,
but he doesn’t let that stop him.
Where sight fades,
his nose and his heart make up for it.

He’s heard it all over the years.
Every conversation.
Every disagreement.
Every whispered apology made after the house quieted down.

He’s been there through the sicknesses and the scares—
waiting at closed doors,
lying close when someone needed warmth.

He’s seen the birthdays,
the holidays,
the tables full of food,
the laughter spilling out into the room.
He’s been part of all of it—
quiet, steady, always there.

He sits and he watches.
He makes sure everything is safe.
Everyone is safe—
because Pete is on duty,
just like always.

And when the day quiets,
and everyone goes inside,
he waits.

He waits to be called in,
to hear a kind voice,
to be told he’s done well.
But humans forget sometimes.

They take it for granted,
thinking, “He’s just a dog. My dog.”

But that’s not really true.

We are his.

We’re more than just the people who fill his days—
we are his purpose.
His reason.

Every breath,
every watchful moment,
has been for us.
He has given his whole life
to our safety,
our laughter,
our love.

We belong to him.

And now—
when I see him resting in the soft light of evening,
his muzzle dusted white,
his eyes still following every sound—
I understand.

He’s not just watching anymore.
He’s remembering.

Every argument.
Every joy.
Every moment he’s kept for us.
Every growing child,
every season passed,
every quiet night he stood guard.

And as I watch him now,
I realize—
I’m the one still being kept safe,
just by knowing he’s here.

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.