Pickles. Don’t forget pickles. She had run through the grocery list so many times that she didn’t even need to look at it anymore. That way, if she lost it in the parking lot or at the store, it wouldn’t be a problem. Anything to avoid having to leave the house a second time this month. Sour cream. Hamburger Helper. Miracle Whip. Bologna. Lucky Charms. Apples. Pickles. She had the store’s layout memorized, including the locations of all the restrooms, in case of another anxiety-provoked Irritable Bowel Syndrome attack.

The sound of the car radio suddenly slashed through her thoughts like the machete of that ski-masked lunatic in one of her daughter’s disgusting horror movies. She glared at the girl in the passenger seat, wondering how it could be possible that she created her. The wild curly hair; the piercing blue eyes; the all-black wardrobe; the laidback personality; none of it came from her. A living reminder of the man who betrayed her and left her alone to raise this unwanted stranger of a child. The girl sighed, her brief smile now stifled, and turned the radio back off. Her hope for a rare pleasant trip now dashed, she turned toward her window, rolled her eyes at the thought of another grocery shopping disaster with her mother, and then closed them tight.

Sour cream. Bologna. Sour cream. Bologna. Sour cream….goddammit.  She could already feel the cramping deep in her gut. Might as well just turn around and go home. No. Get it together. She took a deep breath and closed her own eyes. Sour cream. Bologna. Hamburger Helper. Sour Cream. Bologna. Hamburger Helper. Miracle Whip. Sour cream. Bologna. Hamburger Helper. Fuck. By the time she gave up and opened her eyes, there was no time left to react. A half-second later, the car plowed into the guard rail and it gave way as if it were made of cardboard.

Her hysterical screaming filled the car as it sailed over the edge and free-fell into the rust-colored river below. The girl next to her made no noise at all. She simply stared ahead in silent terror, mouth and eyes agape. Typical. The impact was jarring, but was not as forceful as she had feared. Then, panic. As the bulky Oldsmobile bobbed around on the surface of the water, she frantically started rolling her window down, then changed her mind and started rolling it back up. Down. Up. Down. Up. She sobbed as the car began to slowly sink.

The girl was frozen in fear, motionless. At a moment when most newly teenaged kids might cling to their mommies, she held tight to the car door, as far away as she could get. The screaming and crying on the other side intensified as the cold, dirty water began to seep in. Still, she sat silent, watching. Throughout her childhood, she had tried with all her might to imagine herself as an adult and she had never been able to. Maybe this was why; growing up wasn’t in the cards for her.

Her mother, a lifelong smoker, didn’t last long once the car was fully submerged. Her frantic, exhausting attempts at forcing her door open the whole way down certainly hadn’t helped her case. Now, the girl watched her lifeless face through a filter of filth colored water. Once the car had been resting on the river bottom for as long as she could bear to hold her breath, she pushed open her door, the water pressure now equalized. Thanking Mythbusters, she kicked off the side of the car and propelled herself to the surface, where her first breath of freedom awaited.

Rose scanned the crowd at the gala with disdain, no longer impressed by the sights of sweeping staircases, grand pianos, or glittering ballgowns. Another weekend, another pompous gathering of the elite pretending to care about the cause of the week. She smoothed down her own dress, a strappy black Givenchy specially made for the event, and offered a quick fake smile to a waiter who crossed her path. She continued her way through the crowd, eyes darting from one side of the huge room to the other, searching. At last, she spotted a gold elevator in the back corner, next to a door marked “STAIRS”. Of course, the giant spiral staircase in the center of the ballroom was purely ornamental, as useless as the millionaires dawdling around in their tuxedos, scouring the room for their next trophy wives.

The door to the stairwell turned easily and quietly, which worked in her favor when it cast a sudden stream of light directly onto her husband’s hand, cradling the bare ass of a woman half his age. There was no room for denials or explanations. The girl didn’t even bother to pull her dress back down. She simply stood smirking at Rose while the great Jameson Sturgeon Jr. unceremoniously struggled to zip his fly. “Rose!” was all he managed to stammer before she was back out the door with hot, humiliated tears burning down her perfectly powdered cheeks. She jogged into the ladies’ room, stilettos be damned, and locked the door behind her.

A gold trimmed toilet. Oodles of black and white marble. Mints. A shelf neatly lined with various types of cell phone chargers. Organic cotton tampons, pads, and pantyliners nestled in solid gold boxes that probably cost more than her first car. The scenery blurred into a mascara fueled grey blob as she made her way to the sink, holding onto its edge and leaning in toward the mirror above it. She stared at herself, taking it all in. The bleached, perfectly toned, icy platinum hair supplemented by extensions. The shortened nose. The plumped lips. The hollow cheeks; malnourished chic.

The tears kept coming as she stared into the mirror, but she no longer saw her reflection in the glass. In her mind, she watched a version of herself from over a decade prior. Her nose was a bit long, her lips a little thin. Her cheeks glowed, naturally rosy and nearly chubby. She had never even heard of Armani and happily trotted around her small hometown in her chunky thrift store sweaters, ripped jeans, and Chuck Taylor until she met Jameson. She had never felt particularly self-conscious before he walked into her local dive bar that crisp November night.

He made no secret of the fact that he was less than thrilled to be spending the night in such no-name small town. He also didn’t hide the fact that he was staring at her, sizing her up, and judging her appearance from the moment he walked into the bar. There was something about her he couldn’t look away from. Later he would tell her he knew from the first time he laid eyes on her that she had potential, as if that were an actual compliment.

Her mother acted as if Rose had won the lottery when Jameson asked her to move in with him after only seven weeks of dating. He immediately took control over what she ate and, more importantly, what she didn’t eat. He convinced her to get veneers and have her hair bleached, in the name of sophistication. It took six months for him to talk her into a nose job. Four months later, she booked the appointment for breast implants. Three months after that, cheek implants and lip fillers. The surgeries were traumatic and the recoveries miserable. She hadn’t recognized herself in years.

Still staring straight ahead into the mirror, her reflection came back into focus. All she could do was wonder whose features she had allowed to take over her face. A shaking hand rose up to her right cheek, red stiletto-nailed fingers curling into a bony claw. Her gaze never left her reflection as she dragged all four nails slowly down toward her jaw, their pointed tips disappearing into her flesh. Once her hand slipped over her jawbone, it fell back to the sink below and was quickly rained down upon by bright red blood droplets. She didn’t feel the stinging of her tears flowing through the newly opened wounds on her face or see the blood flowing from them, though she hadn’t looked away from the mirror.

She had taught herself to purge when she lost control and went off Jameson’s diet plan. He rewarded her with a $200,000 engagement ring. The first time she caught him with another woman was at their extravagant wedding reception; Michelle with the red dress and the collarbones that protruded more than hers did. Worried about what her family might think, she had hidden in the coat room, breathing into an overpriced giftbag until her panic attack subsided. When she confronted him afterward, he convinced her that the girl had simply tried to kiss him. He had pulled away, of course, and Rose simply walked in at just the wrong time. The next 13 years would prove that she was incredibly gifted at walking in at precisely the wrong time.

Snapping back to her reflection, she examined the bleeding gashes on her right cheek and smiled softly, feeling a bit closer to her true self already. She raised her bloody fingers once more and then sent them tearing through the flesh of her cheek again, intersecting the existing wounds and creating a pattern of gruesome red diamonds. Splashes of warm blood dripped from her face. One landed on her right collarbone, triggering the memory of Michelle and her perfectly underweight frame. Her hand followed. She pressed down on her index finger with all her might and dragged it from the inside of her right collar bone out toward her shoulder. Just as the blood spilled over onto her gown, the door’s lock clicked loudly.

Rose turned toward the door just in time to face the horrified custodian. The elderly man was so shocked by the sight that he dropped the heavy ring of keys he held onto the floor. He sputtered a slew of half-words as he fumbled in his pocket for his phone. Behind him stood a plump middle-aged woman. The urgent wiggling dance she was performing in her too-tight dress made it clear that she was the one who had gone in search of someone to unlock the bathroom door. Craning her neck to peek around the man, she finally caught a glimpse of the bloodied young woman inside and let out a  scream that brought the night’s charitable festivities to an abrupt halt.

—————————

Rose gathered supplies from the grey cabinet on wheels: a glossy white poster board, markers, glue sticks, and a stack of old magazines. Scissors were strictly prohibited, but she had gotten quite skilled at ripping out the pictures without damaging them. She headed to the back corner, where a half circle of empty metal folding chairs faced a wooden easel. Using the chairs on either side for tables, she seated herself in the middle of the row and got to work. Every few moments, her index finger lightly wandered over the scars covering her right cheek.

By the time Nurse Warner announced another weekly meeting of the “self-esteem group” to the women roaming the room’s various activity centers, Rose had already been set up for nearly an hour. All the usual girls clamored over to the chairs. Every week, Candy, Toni, Marge, and Alyssa showed up to do the work, for which Rose was eternally grateful. This week, however, there was a newcomer headed toward the corner. Jane had arrived to the facility a week ago and hadn’t said a word to anyone since.

Throughout her 30-minute presentation and the 30-minute group discussion that followed, Jane said nothing. She did, however, nod and take notes throughout, which filled Jane with a purer joy than she had experience for years before arriving at Ferndale. While she wasn’t always comfortable with nourishing her body with food yet, she nourished her soul every week by helping these women learn how to love themselves.

Unfortunately, Wednesday wasn’t only her day to conduct the voluntary group meeting. It was also visiting day. Every week, without fail, Jameson would saunter into the visitation room in his designer suit, sneering at the nurses and trying not to touch anything. Each week, Rose would be guided into the room by a nurse’s aid and sat across from her husband at the visitor’s table. Today, he only made it seven minutes into the allotted hour before losing his composure.

“Goddamn it, Rose! I know you can talk. The doctors have told me!” He looked around, lowering his volume, and leaned in across the table. “Listen, I can get you out of here. I can bring you home. All you have to do is talk to me.” Rose tilted her head at him like a confused, mute puppy, blinking slowly and looking through him. He wasn’t sure why he bothered, other than keeping up appearances. Divorce wasn’t an option, if he wanted to preserve his access to his old-school Catholic parents’ fortune. The cost of keeping her here was nothing to him and he could do whatever he wanted anyway, short of remarrying.

“Fine,” he huffed, abruptly shoving his chair back and hopping to his feet. His long coat swished past her, enveloping her in an overpowering cloud of Tom Ford cologne. She stifled a gag and flicked her gaze to the window facing the parking lot. There, sitting in the passenger seat of the familiar black Jaguar, was a heavily made-up young blonde wearing a large shimmering diamond necklace. As she looked up from her phone screen, the two women made eye contact through the glass. Rose smiled coyly at the girl, turning her head slightly so that her scars were on full display, and quickly wiggled her fingers in a wave before she was ushered out.

Inspired by the 1965 folk song, “Bringing Mary Home” by The Country Gentleman.

Harry grumbled under his breath as he leaned in even closer to the windshield, willing his eyes to work harder and wiping the condensation from the glass. The snow cascaded down in oversized flakes against the backdrop of an utterly black sky. His tires threatened to lose their grip as he maneuvered each winding curve, but he was not deterred. He didn’t care how far away his ex-wife and her rich husband lived or how much wilderness surrounded their pretentious mountain mansion. He would see his daughter on her birthday and he would not waste a single night of the measly two weeks he got to spend with her each year.

He glanced at the digital clock on the dash and it glared back at him: 11:39 PM. He should call Tina and let her know that he was getting close. Reaching over to the passenger seat to grab his cell phone, eyes glued to the icy road ahead, he instructed the phone to “Call Tina.” Silence. Damn technology. He reluctantly looked down at the phone screen, only to discover a complete lack of bars. No service, of course. He tossed the phone over to the passenger seat and snapped his eyes back to the road. His gaze was immediately drawn to the warm glow created by the headlights reflecting off of a bright yellow sign depicting three stick figure deer crossing the road.

Walking toward the sign was what appeared to be a young teenage girl in a white coat with a fur trimmed hood. Tendrils of long black hair escaped the hood, swirling in the wind. Harry instinctively tapped his brakes to slow down and felt his tires lose touch with the pavement. He held his breath, terrified for a moment that the car would slide into the girl. Instead, the tires resumed their places on the slippery terrain and he very carefully came to a stop. The girl was looking over at the car by this point and he found himself taken aback by how pale her skin was, nearly matching her stark white coat.

Harry lowered the passenger window and called out to her. “Are you alright, Miss? Do you need a ride?” She looked concerned for a moment, biting at her lip as she contemplated. It was hard to argue in this weather, though, and she quickly nodded in agreement. He watched as the girl glanced between the passenger door and the back door before choosing the latter. She climbed into the backseat and closed the door behind her, shivering. “Where can I take you?” Harry asked, glancing at her in the rear view mirror. “Home,” she replied. Her voice was high pitched, shaky, and incredibly quiet. “It’s just up the road.”

She pointed a tiny white finger straight ahead. He nodded and lifted his foot from the brake to resume driving. The girl was so silent that it was making him uncomfortable. “So, what’s your name?” he asked, almost expecting to get no response. “Molly,” she answered meekly. Harry flashed a friendly smile, resisting the urge to remove his gaze from the snowy road. “You look about the same age as my daughter, Molly. Her name is Jade.”

Molly sat completely still, never shifting a muscle. “I turned thirteen today,” she responded in her barely audible tone. Harry’s eyes widened in amusement.“You don’t say! Today is my Jade’s thirteenth birthday too!” Molly flashed a small smile, although Harry didn’t see it. They rode in silence for a moment while he contemplated the odds of such a coincidence. Eventually, the quiet started to eat at him again and he racked his brain for something to say. “Are you a Billie Eilish fan?” he asked. “I just got tickets to take Jade to her show for her birthday.”

Harry beamed at the thought of being so close to surprising his daughter with her gift, and spent a moment picturing the fun they would have at the concert. The slight pull of the car beginning to slide was enough to rip him from his thoughts and he let up on the gas pedal, slowing down. Molly stared straight ahead, offering no reaction. Finally, she faintly responded, “I like Adele.” Thankfully, before another painful silence engulfed him, Harry spotted a small house ahead and noticed that the lights were on inside, even though it was past midnight now. He immediately thought of how worried her parents must be.

“Is that it?” he asked. Molly whispered, “Yes.” As he inched toward the house, the wind picked up, blowing a veil of snow in front of his vision. Harry slowed down to a crawl, squinting to find the driveway in the whiteout. By the time the car had crept up next to the house, he had broken out into a sweat. “Well, we made it,” he announced, twisting around in the driver’s seat to face Molly. Much to his dismay, the backseat was now empty. Dumbfounded, he flung the door open, jumped out, and circled the car, as if he might find Molly hiding on the other side.

Heart pounding in his throat, Harry nearly jumped out of his skin when a man’s voice spoke beside him. “You okay?” In his panic, he hadn’t noticed when the porch light flickered on, nor had he heard the man walk from the house to where they now stood in the driveway. Harry was speechless and only managed to spit out a couple of meaningless syllables before the man let out a somber chuckle and held up a hand, signaling for Harry to stop his attempt at speaking.

“You gave Molly a ride home, didn’t you?” he asked knowingly. This confused Harry even more. “Yes! But you don’t understand…I think she’s still out there!” Harry gestured wildly in the general direction of the road but the man just shook his head and sighed. “No, sir. I’m afraid you don’t understand. You see, Molly’s been dead for ten years now.” Harry narrowed his eyes, feeling a ripple of both shock and suspicion. Surely, this couldn’t be true. All the same, he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise and goosebumps cascade down both arms.

The man continued, “She was staying with her friend down the road for her birthday, but they got into an argument and she tried to walk home in the snow. A car slid off the road and hit her, right down there by the deer crossing sign.” He pointed in the direction Harry had come from. “I know it’s hard to take in but, you see, she does this every time there’s a snowstorm on her birthday. That’s how I knew to stay up and wait for you to get here.” He flashed that sorrowful smile again and fell quiet, giving Harry a moment to process what he’d just been told.

“I…I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry,” Harry stammered, still not sure if he could believe that this was all real. His thoughts kept returning to his sweet Jade and wondering how he would possibly go on if something terrible were to happen to her. The man nodded in understanding. “I’m sure she chose you for a reason. Thank you for trying to keep my daughter safe.”

When Harry returned to the car, his hands were shaking. As he finished the drive to Tina’s house to pick up Jade, he continually checked the rear view mirror, half hoping and half fearing that Molly would reappear in the backseat. By the time he arrived at his destination, Jade was deep asleep and he was offered the guest house for a few hours of rest. Harry tossed and turned, falling into occasional bouts of fitful slumber, rampant with vague nightmares. When Jade still wasn’t awake by eight o’clock, he slipped out and made his way through the snow and into the nearest tiny town.

An hour later, he returned to wake Jade up with her childhood favorite, cherry donuts. He had to choke back the tears when she hugged him, images of poor Molly and her father instantly invading his mind. By ten o’clock, they were on the road and it was just the two of them for the next two weeks. They chatted about school, friends, and even boys until suddenly, Harry slowed down and pulled the car over. Jade watched quizzically as he got out, walked around to the back of the car, and popped open the trunk.

After she heard the thud of the trunk closing, she saw Harry walk across the road toward a deer crossing sign. He turned to face the sign, revealing a bouquet of bright white roses held in his arms. She wondered if he had lost his mind when he bent and gently placed the flowers in the snow at the base of the sign and then headed back to the car. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” she asked as Harry climbed back in, kicking the snow off his boots. He smiled and glanced back to the seat where Molly had waited patiently for him to take her home. “Buckle up,” he nodded. “You’re not going to believe this one.” As they drove away, the wind blew another sheet of snow across the road, this time bringing with it a single white petal.

Today, I take a step out of my comfort zone and review Tales of a Temptress, a book of erotic poetry and prose by Amanda Lucinda.

Let me make it completely clear that I am not normally a reader of either erotica or poetry, so I definitely advise you to take this review with a grain of salt.

Tales of a Temptress is a very quick, very vulgar read, and a bit chaotic as collections go; some of the poems within are only a few lines long while others are several pages. I don´t think this is a bad thing. In fact, it fits quite well with the overall vibe.

While the cliches I expected to find on my first foray into erotica did make an appearance here and there (hey there, fishnets, heels, and neckties), I also found much more.

With themes of fear, jealousy, abandonment, and gender inequality, Tales of a Temptress is more than just sex. It screams female empowerment and bubbles over with rage in places. My favorite of the entire collection would have to the following line from ¨catcall¨, in response to being told to smile by a man:

¨I´m not here as your jester

Or your ray of sunshine

My emotions are solely mine¨

It´s hard to argue with that.

4/5 would recommend to those who enjoy some thought with their graphic sex scenes.

Coincidentally, the second book on my review list is another book of ten short stories: Forgotten Lives by Tristan Shaw. This one is a bit longer than the first, coming in at 92 pages. As usual, I’ll start with the technicalities. Forgotten Lives is not quite an error-free book, as is rather expected in the indie author era. A mild error or two is not at all deal-breaker for me, as long as there is worthwhile substance. And worthwhile substance this book has.

It is no secret that I am a lover of all things dark and morbid, and the stories within Forgotten Lives certainly fits the bill. I absolutely adored the first eight stories. Of particular interest to me were the tales of an envious sideshow dwarf, hindsight recollections of a mother’s madness, a gluttonous winemaker driven to cannibalism, and a fraudulent spiritual medium. I recently started writing my first novel, which just happens to center around a fraudulent psychic, so I would probably have to name “The Spirit Photographer” my personal favorite of this collection.

I felt that the final two stories in Forgotten Lives, while undoubtedly well-written, were a bit more historical, dry, and slow paced than the rest. The book as a whole is incredibly clever, intelligent, effective, and gloriously dramatic. Take, for example, this excerpt of the above mentioned winemaker describing the ordeal of losing his sense of taste:

“Shall I compare it the grief of a couple who’s lost their only child? No. Too insignificant. The bombings of Nagasaki and Hiroshima? Mere papercuts in contrast to the existential shock I experienced.”

4/5 would recommend to all fellow fans of the cynical and the macabre.

My debut book review focuses on Scorpion Tales: Short stories with a sting in the tale by SD Johnson.

This book is a short read, coming in at just 51 pages, and contains ten short stories within it. Two of the stories are based upon actual historical events or figures, while the other eight are purely fictional.

First, let’s get the mechanics out of the way. There are a couple of mild typographical errors in this book. In today’s world of self publishing, this is not at all unusual but if you’re a real old school stickler, you may be bothered. Personally, it wasn’t a distraction for me.

Now, onto the substance. The short stories in Scorpion Tales vary in both genre and time period. They all feature a twist ending and a couple even share the same characters on an alternate timeline, which I found delightful.

My favorites involved a young woman who becomes enthralled with a local musician, a socially awkward boy who goes about getting attention the wrong way, a battered woman’s journey to freedom, and a kind lady who gives too much of herself to others.

As a reader who is drawn mostly to horror, I found some of the twists a bit tame, but that is likely due to my own desensitization. Others still managed to give me the kick in the gut I was hoping for. Overall, the characters were engaging, the stories were intriguing, and the endings were clever. I certainly would read a couple of these stories adapted into their own novels.

4/5 would recommend for anyone who enjoys a short read and an unexpected ending (or ten).