The Insecure Writer's Support Group: December 2020

 

It's the first Wednesday of the month, and that means it's time for another meeting of The Insecure Writer's Support Group. Our leader Alex J. Cavanaugh has assembled another wonderful cohort of co-hosts for this month: Pat Garcia, Sylvia Ney, Liesbet @ Roaming About, Cathrina Constantine, and Natalie Aguirre.

Be sure to check out the IWSG website for great writerly resources!

The optional question for this month is: Are there months or times of the year that you are more productive with your writing than other months, and why?

Having kids in the house plays a large role in how much writing I get done at any given time. During the summer months, when all of the kids are out of school and home all the time, it's harder to focus on writing. I still manage to carve out times to write, but the opportunities are less abundant.

2020 started out productive for me, but when the schools shut down in March due to Covid, that made things a bit more difficult. I had to switch gears to help keep their learning on track at home, as well as mediate arguments between my restless children. This cut into my writing time as well. Lack of inspiration during this time also didn't help. The upheaval in normal life took its toll in multiple ways. It hasn't been easy recovering from that.

Still, I'm hoping the first half of 2021 will be a productive time for me as a writer.

Are there times of the year when you're a more productive writer?

The Insecure Writer's Support Group: November 2020

It's the first Wednesday of the month, and you know what that means! Let's kick off another meeting of The Insecure Writer's Support Group. Our leader Alex J. Cavanaugh has assembled another great group of co-hosts: Jemi Fraser, Kim Lajevardi, Tyrean Martinson, Rachna Chhabria, and me!

Be sure to check out the IWSG website for great writing resources!

The optional question for this month is: Albert Camus once said, "The purpose of a writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself." Flannery O'Connor said, "I write to discover what I know." Authors across time and distance have had many reasons to write. Why do you write what you write?

That is an excellent question, and I love these quotes. I don't know if I feel competent to keep civilization from destroying itself (there's a lot of pressure there in that statement), but I can certainly relate to what Flannery O'Connor is saying here. Writing can certainly be a process of self-discovery. I use it as such all the time.

However, in seeking to answer this question for myself, I can't help but think of how I first started writing. I made my first attempt at writing a novel when I was six years old. It was awful, I think that goes without saying, but I was eager to put words on the page.

My parents were avid readers when I was growing up, and I emulated that. I also lived out in the country, and though I had half-siblings, I spent most of my childhood as the only child in the house. At least I had a gigantic backyard to keep me entertained. I used to stalk about the yard, weaving around trees and pretending I was on a grand adventure. 

The moment I started learning how to write, I began to translate those imaginary adventures onto the page. Maybe it was the fact that I'd already fallen in love with reading. Perhaps I did it to keep myself entertained. Mostly likely, it was a combination of the two, and I've been writing ever since. I grew up as a writer.

So why do I write?

I write to be who I am.

That's my declaration. I wouldn't be me without writing. It's been such a formative part of my life that I can't see myself without it.

Why do you write?

WEP October Challenge-Grave Mistake

 

It's time for our October WEP Challenge! The prompt for this month is Grave Mistake!

I didn't get any real inspiration until last minute, so this little story happened all at once. I hope you enjoy it!

Into the Earth

 

Sweat beaded on Hank’s brow as he plunged the shovel into the earth. His muscles strained as he lifted another mound of dirt from the growing hole and lofted it onto the pile alongside him. The sun beat down on him without mercy as he worked. This was the first week of October, when the weather was supposed to be turning crisp and cool.

“Someone must have left the gates of Hell open,” Hank muttered as he watched the moist dirt yield to his shovel once more. Instead of being a crisp, fall day, it felt more like the height of summer with temperatures nearing 90 degrees. Not the kind of weather he wanted to be digging in, but he needed the money.

Taking odd jobs helped to pay the bills. Hank tried not to think about his growing pile of debt. It threatened to bury him alive.

He shook his head, flinging some of the sweat droplets from his forehead. No, he wouldn’t think about his money problems now. One of the main benefits of hard physical labor was to temporarily forget about life and immerse himself in the moment.

And so, he toiled away, flinging more and more dirt out of the way. Mrs. Morris, the lady who hired him to dig this darned hole, wanted to install a little reflecting pond beside her garden. It was the kind of unnecessary luxury he couldn’t envision ever installing for himself, but to each his own.

He was about three feet down when his shovel struck something hard. The reverberation ran up both of his arms, jarring his entire body.

“Stupid rocks,” he muttered.

Using the tip of shovel to push the dirt away, he planned to dig up and cast aside the problematic obstruction. A smooth white surface greeted him. Dropping the shovel, he leaned down to grasp the rock with both hands and give it a good yank.

His lower back flared with pain as the rock refused to budge at first. Hank gritted his teeth and gave it a second, mightier tug. The earth finally released it, and he found himself face to face with something he’d never imagined.

Two empty eye sockets stared blankly back at him. A slack jaw hung for a moment before crashing to the ground by his feet.

A skull. And this was no animal skull. It was human. No doubt in his mind about that.

Stunned beyond belief, he sunk to his knees and set the skull down beside him. His hands frantically began pushing dirt out of the way, searching to see if there were any more bones to be found. He couldn’t begin to articulate why, but some dark curiosity had seized him.

Sure enough, within minutes he’d found a fleshless hand. The bones were no longer connected by living tissue, but the soil held them in place, making it impossible to ignore what they meant.

Who was this person, and why in the world were they buried here?

Hank was so immersed in his own thoughts, he didn’t hear the footsteps approaching from behind. He didn’t notice anything at all until he heard a slight gasp.

He turned to find Mrs. Morris there, her hands clasped over her mouth.

Of course she was horrified. Who wouldn’t be to find such a thing in their own back yard? The older woman’s eyes grew wide as saucers as she peered down into the hole.

“Mrs. Morris, are you okay? Do you want me to call the police for you?” Hank asked. Surely they would need to report this. It was going to be a pain, but he couldn’t do anything about that.

She shook her head. “I thought I buried him over yonder,” she muttered, pointing toward the other side of the garden. “Just goes to show that the memory fades over time. My mistake.”

Hank stared at her for a long moment, the truth dawning on him slowly.

Too slowly, as it turned out.

Mrs. Morris already had the shovel in hand. When had she even picked it up?

He started to back away, but she was already mid-swing. The metal connected hard with the side of his head, and he crumpled where he stood.

The world stopped making any kind of sense for a time. He couldn’t say how long, but once he was able to form a coherent thought, Mrs. Morris stood in the hole beside him.

No. This was no hole. It was a grave, and it was about to be his, too.

Though Hank’s vision was blurred, he could make out the edges woman’s deranged smile. She leaned in closer, and Hank was overwhelmed by her putrid breath. If he wasn’t so grievously injured, he might have wondered what she could have eaten to make such a horrific stink.

Perhaps it was better that he didn’t know.

“I will say this,” she said. “It sure was kind of you to dig your own grave for me. My back has been acting up something terrible lately. These old bones aren’t as tough as they used to be.”

Bones. Hank thought of that pile of bones he’d unearthed. The ones that were currently resting beneath his injured body. He was going to decompose on top of them until his bones comingled with those of this other man he’d never met.

A few moments passed as Hank drifted in and out of consciousness. He was only vaguely aware of the dirt raining down on him. In some distant part of his brain, he realized with horror that she wasn’t even going to finish him off before burying him.

It won’t be my bills that bury me alive after all, he thought bitterly.

More dirt fell on top of him. It would take her a while to cover him completely. Bad back, and all.

This whole thing was a grave mistake. That morbid joke, a last taste of gallows humor, carried him into the black for the final time.

Word Count: 1000

FCA

 

 

The Insecure Writer's Support Group: October 2020

It's the first Wednesday of the month, and that means it's time to convene another meeting of The Insecure Writer's Support Group. Our leader Alex J. Cavanaugh has assembled another wonderful group of co-hosts: Jemima Pett, Beth Camp, Beverly Stowe McClure, and Gwen Gardner.

Be sure to check out the IWSG website for plenty of great resources for writers!

The optional question for this month is: When you think of the term working writer, what does that look like to you? What do you think it is supposed to look like? Do you see yourself as a working writer or aspiring or hobbyist, and if the latter two, what does that look like?

One thing I can say for certain is that, if you write, it is appropriate to call yourself a writer. You should never feel shame in claiming that label, even if you don't write as often as you'd like, or if you have yet to achieve publication. Someone who never allows their words to be read by another person can still be a writer.

That being said, there are certainly different types within that designation. When I think of the term working writer, I see that person as someone who writes regularly. A working writer is someone who, by their own standards, has achieved success in their writing career. A person who earns their living based solely on their writing is obviously a working writer, but that is also a pretty exclusive club. If that's the definition of a working writer, there aren't a whole lot of them out there.

No, that definition is too narrow. It excludes too many people. How about expanding it to include writers who use their income to supplement what they earn from their day jobs?  Or writers who do this in addition to caring for children or enjoying their retirement years? Well, that certainly helps. Even so, do we want to exclude writers that don't yet earn money from their work? Or writers that don't do it for the goal of earning money, but for some other reason entirely?

The trouble with defining what it means to be a working writer is that there's no correct answer. The definition varies depending on who you ask. After some thought, I've come up with some questions we can all ask ourselves to decide if we're working writers.

-What does success as a writer mean to you?

-Have you yet achieved this success?

-If you haven't achieved your definition of success, do you have a plan in place to help you get there?

-Are you striving every day to stick to that plan to the best of your ability?

If you can say that you are indeed striving to achieve success (in whatever form that might take for you), then I think you can consider yourself a working writer.

Working off of that, I think an aspiring writer is someone who wants to be a working writer, but they're not yet certain what their vision of success is or how to get there. They know they love writing, and they know they want it to be a concrete part of their lives. They simply need time to develop a roadmap for themselves.

So what does it mean to be a hobbyist? I guess, to me, that means someone is simply writing for fun with no real goal aside from enjoyment. The hobbyist writes recreationally when they have the time or the inclination to do so. They don't do it in the hopes of making it big someday.

So which am I? I honestly have no idea. I feel as if I'm stuck somewhere between the aspiring writer and the working writer. I do my best to write when I can, and I know where I want to go with my writing career. What I lack is the concrete plan to achieve that success. Life keeps pulling me away. 

What kind of plan should I enact to strike the balance between writing and the other aspects of my life so I can achieve the success I crave? I don't know yet, I'm working toward figuring it out.

What does being a working writer mean to you?

The Insecure Writer's Support Group-September 2020

It's the first Wednesday of the month, and that means it's time for another meeting of The Insecure Writer's Support Group! Our leader Alex J. Cavanaugh has assembled a wonderful bunch of co-hosts for this month: PJ Colando, J Lenni Dorner, Deniz Bevan, Kim Lajevardi, Natalie Aguirre, and Fundy Blue.

Be sure to check out the IWSG website for great writerly advice!

I wanted to talk about how hard it can be to write sometimes. During times of stress, getting words onto the page can feel a bit like pulling teeth. It doesn't help that this struggle is often coupled with insecurity. There have been many times in the last few months that I force myself to write something, only to look at it with doubt. Is this any good? Did I waste my time? I've heard it said that you can't edit a blank page, but what if what I've written is so bad that it would only make sense to delete it and start from scratch?

Am I alone in feeling this? Surely I can't be. I think a lot of us have had those dark moments. And in a year as topsy-turvy as 2020, we need to be a bit more forgiving of ourselves. In looking through various articles and social media posts, I've seen that a lot of creative people have been struggling this year.

I remember when quarantine started, I thought it would be a good opportunity to be productive. The more time you have, the more productive you can be, right? That sounds nice in theory, but as it turns out, pursuing creative endeavors requires more than time. It also requires the right mindset, and that can be harder to achieve when all of life is stressful and uncertain.

This year still feels up in the air. I don't know what's going to happen next, nor does anyone else. Yet I feel like I'm making progress again. I've been writing more. I've finished short projects again, and I'm diving back into writing a novel. I'm not moving as fast as I was at the beginning of the year, but I'm making strides. Why? Maybe it helps that I've been more forgiving of my short comings. I've been trying to beat myself up less when I fall short of a goal. Being angry with yourself doesn't make productivity come. It only leads to more stress.

If you've been struggling with your writing, be kind to yourself. You can continue to push yourself without the negativity of self-doubt. Set smaller, more attainable goals. And if you need a break to do something nice for yourself, do it. Take a walk. Watch a beloved movie or TV show. Do anything that will help you relax. Then make yourself pick back up where you left off and try writing again. Find balance between work and play wherever you can.

I don't know how much this advice means to you, but it's helped me. What do you do when you struggle with writing? What leisurely activities bring you joy when stress overwhelms you?

WEP August Challenge - Long Shadow

Hello everyone! It's time for the August WEP Challenge! The theme for this one is Long Shadow.

I opted to write something light and simple this time around. 2020 has been hard for us all. I live in Iowa, and last week we had a derecho roll through. For those who don't know, a derecho is a strong thunderstorm with insane winds. This storm experienced winds of well over 100 mph in some places. My family got lucky. We only lost power for a few hours and lost a large branch in one of our trees. This storm absolutely devastated many communities near us, and I personally know many people who had significant property damage. The photos I've seen are nothing short of horrifying.

So, fortunate as I am, I still felt the need for something lighthearted. I think we could all use it.

Monster 

The sun is going down soon. I look to the west and see the hints of orange and red on the horizon. A bird sings in a tree nearby. It’ll be going to bed soon. I don’t want to go to bed, but I don’t have a choice. I’m only seven.

I smile. I don’t need to go inside yet, though. I have a little more time. Turning my back to the sun, I gaze down at the ground. My shadow stretches out in front of me, taller than two of me stacked on top of each other would be. I push myself onto my tiptoes to make it grow a little more.

With a giggle, I hold my arms out over my head, curling my fingers so they look like menacing claws on the grass. I let out a vicious snarl. “Rawr!” I stomp my feet, hunching slightly so I look like a giant monster in an old movie.

Stomp. Stomp. “Rawr!”

My shadow keeps growing as the sun dips lower. The blades of grass become a forest of trees. An ant skitters past one of my shoes. I wave my clawed hands, and the shadow envelopes the tiny creature.

Run, little one, run! I think as I continue to claw at the air.

The ant disappears under a fallen twig, and I move on.

I’m large. I’m the biggest thing in the world. I pause at a boulder that sits on one corner of a flower bed. It isn’t a boulder today, though. No. It’s pointed top makes it a mountain. I stand beside it and consider the possibilities.

“Rawr!” It takes little effort to climb it, and I balance precariously on the tip. Raising my arms high over my head, I make my shadow spread across as much of the yard as possible. I am gigantic. Cicadas drone in the background as I savor my moment of triumph in the warm summer evening.

“Laura!”

My mom’s voice tears me from the moment, and I scramble down from my perch. I can’t see her thanks to the hedge surrounding the patio, but I know she’s waiting there by the door.

“It’s time to come inside!” she calls.

“I’m coming!” I reply.

I turn to make my way back to the house, my shadow now invisible behind me.

Word Count: 390

FCA

I hope you enjoyed it! Be sure to visit all the other participants!

The Insecure Writer's Support Group: August 2020

It looks like the first Wednesday of the month snuck up on me this time around. I apologize for running late with my post for The Insecure Writer's Support Group. Our leader Alex J. Cavanaugh has assembled a great group of co-hosts once again: Susan Baury Rouchard, Nancy Gideon, Jennifer Lane, Jennifer Hawes, Chemist Ken, and Chrys Fey.

Be sure to check out the IWSG website for great writerly advice!

The optional question for this month is: 

Quote: "Although I have written a short story collection, the form found me and not the other way around. Don't write short stories, novels or poems. Just write your truth and your stories will mold into the shapes they need to be." Have you ever written a piece that became a form, or even a genre, you hadn't planned on writing in? Or do you choose a form/genre in advance?

When I set out to write a story, I have a rough idea of what it's going to be. Sometimes I even have a plot worked out. This in no way guarantees things won't change during the writing process. I have many examples of this, but I'll speak specifically about a project I'm working on right now.

My current WIP takes place on a space station near Saturn, so it's pretty clearly science fiction. The story started out as a YA story. Why? I knew I wanted to deal with characters who were finishing school and trying to figure out how to scrape together a living on a space station, where the economic opportunities are somewhat more limited than they would be on earth. That generates a lot of conflict on its own and is an interesting topic to examine. I wrote about 90K of this story, and while I like a lot of it, I knew something about it wasn't working. I thought about it for a while and decided I needed to age my characters up a bit. They needed a little more experience in this economic reality. In the end, I only aged them up a couple of years. It's enough to officially boot the book out of the YA category, at least. My characters are still young and learning the ropes, but they also have a bit of valuable experience informing their decisions. How will this rewrite ultimately go? I'm not far enough into it to know for certain, but I'm hopeful.

It can feel daunting when your story needs to take a different direction than you initially planned, but that's a part of being a writer. Being open to that change is a crucial part of creating the best stories we can.

Do you stick to the genre/form you set out to write in, or do your tales sometimes transform as you write them?

The Insecure Writer's Support Group: July 2020

It's the first Wednesday of the month, and that means it's time for another meeting of The Insecure Writer's Support Group. Alex J. Cavanaugh has gathered another group of wonderful co-hosts for this month: Jenni Enzor, Beth Camp, Liesbet @ Roaming About, Tyrean Martinson, and Sandra Cox.

Be sure to visit the IWSG website for great writing resources!

This has been a crazy couple of weeks for us at home. One of the tendons in my husband's leg snapped while he was at work not long ago. The good news is that it isn't a major one, so surgery isn't necessary. Since the tendon helped to support his knee, he will need to do physical therapy to ensure his knee doesn't give out a few years down the road. He also had an issue with one of his feet during this time. So he was off work a little more than a week, and we've been focused on getting him feeling better. Now that he's back to work, hopefully there will be a relative return to normalcy around here.

As things at home have been so crazy lately, I haven't done a lot in terms of writing. I want to change that. As such, I went searching through writing related quotes to boost my inspiration. I came across this one, which was just what I needed to see right now.

“The scariest moment is always just before you start.” -Stephen King

It isn't easy to get back into the swing of things. It can be downright intimidating at times, but that's okay. The important thing is to press on and keep writing.

Have a happy July everyone!

WEP June Challenge-Urban Nightmare

It's time for another WEP Challenge. This month's theme is Urban Nightmare. It seems oddly fitting now. Be sure to stop by the sign up post if you want to join in!

This poem is the result of me trying to grapple with the world as we know it. Humanity has been through many times of struggle, and people have been proclaiming that it may well be the end of the world for a long time. And if not the end of the world, at least the end of life as we know it. I can see why people may be tempted to think that way, but I have to hope for something better. Giving in to despair solves nothing.

Poetry isn't my strongest suit, but it felt like the best avenue for self-expression at the moment.

In the Streets

The forecasts of the world’s end

came time and time again.

The end is nigh came the cry,

“You must repent, amen.”

Those dates foretold came and went

and life continued on.

New voices rose as others faded

but people wished them gone.

Then science chimed in with its warning,

but cries fell on deafened ears.

“We don’t trust you!” many yelled.

“You’re only stoking fears.”

The warming planet, depleted resources.

Those in power waved them off.

Changing things would take effort.

So much easier to scoff.

Then the viral threat reared its head,

but it started so far away.

“It isn’t here, no need to worry.

It’s easily kept at bay.”

The spread came anyway, as history

has shown it surely could.

The illness spread like wildfire

before people finally understood.

Soon the streets were empty.

The world fell quiet and still.

Life ground to a halt,

by an act of collective will.

The urban nightmare set in,

as the emptied streets mirrored death.

The end of our lives as we knew them.

We all paused and took a breath.

As it turns out, pausing and waiting

was not as simple as it sounded.

People grew restless and bitter

and the problems compounded.

The allure of life as normal

was too precious to resist.

“The world must open once again.

Life must go on. We insist!”

And as life started to resume

old problems bubbled up.

Lives taken unjustly with no consequence.

More people did rise up.

“We want to change this now!

Listen to our pleas!”

They filled the streets and shouted

While others got down on their knees.

Most took to the streets in peace,

and still some violence reigned.

The message filtered through the chaos,

while many relationships were strained.

Disagreements did abound as talks ensued

about how to fix what was broken.

Ideas did flow through,

but many resentments were spoken.

The world’s ills weren’t visible to all

while others accepted them as fact.

“You can’t fix all of society,” they said

in the hopes of keeping it intact.

Change is painful for all,

but some have more to lose.

Livelihoods upended and lives lost.

Society needs to choose.

Illness rampant and unrest in the streets.

It all seemed too grave to bear.

How can it all be made right at last?

How will we wake from this nightmare?

As buildings burn and tempers flare,

we all forget to listen.

As lives are lost and futures changed

and the mounting tears glisten.

Sickness threatens with a new wave,

while our societal sickness festers.

While it may feel hopeless at times

we must stand up to the jesters.

Scary as the future is

we must work to make it bright.

Life and society will never improve if

good people don’t join in the fight.

Word Count: 465

FCA

The Insecure Writer's Support Group

It's the first Wednesday of the month, and that means it's time for another meeting of The Insecure Writer's Support Group. Our leader Alex J. Cavanaugh has assembled another group of marvelous co-hosts: Pat Garcia, J.Q. Rose, and Natalie Aguirre.

Be sure to check out the IWSG website for lots of writing advice and resources!

Here is the optional question for this month: Writer's have secrets! What are one or two of yours, something readers would never know from your work?

This is a tricky but fun question. It's tricky, because I've shared a lot about myself on this blog over the years. I think my biggest secret that I'm a little embarrassed about is how disorganized I can be with my writing sometimes. I try to plot, and I keep track of my word counts. These are simply meager attempts to get a handle on the chaos that is my writing process.

I can never write a story in sequential order. I hop in between scenes in an attempt to get an overview of the story as a whole. It's almost as if I need to write a scene for each of the major plot points in the story before I go back and fill in the rest. It's part of my process, and while it feels chaotic in the moment, it ultimately seems to work out.

As for non-writing related secrets someone might not know about me, I drink most of my cups of coffee cold. This isn't because I prefer to drink them cold, either. It happens purely through circumstance. Sometimes I get involved in something and forget I have a cup of coffee. Other times I have to put it up because my daughters both love grabbing at my coffee, so I can't have it within their reach out of fear they might burn themselves. The end result either way is cold coffee. And even though I would rather drink it hot, I'll still take it at whatever temperature I can because I want the caffeine.

Lastly, I'd like to wish my husband a Happy Anniversary! As of yesterday, we've been married 13 years.

What secrets do you have?

Insecure Writer's Support Group: May 2020

It's the first Wednesday of the month, and that means it's time for another meeting of The Insecure Writer's Support Group! Our leader Alex J. Cavanaugh has assembled another great group of co-hosts for this month: Feather Stone, Beverly Stowe McClure, Mary Aalgaard, Kim Lajevardi, and Chemist Ken.

Be sure to check out the IWSG website for lots of great advice!

The optional question for this month is: Do you have any rituals that you use when you need help getting into the ZONE? Care to share?

I'll say this. I've needed additional help getting into the zone lately. The stress of the pandemic is a factor, but an even bigger factor is having the kids home all the time and adjusting to them learning from home. I find the best time to get any writing done these days is after I've put all the kids to bed. The down side of that is I am often tired or stressed out after a long day. Still, trying to sit down and write can be a good way to end the day with a sense of accomplishment.

Normally I would sit down to write with a cup of coffee, but since I'm writing later at night, I've had to substitute that with a cup of tea. Sometimes putting on some soft music helps. If all that fails, forcing myself to start writing, putting one word in front of the other, can get things going.

There are no guarantees, of course, and in stressful times like these, it's understandable if your creativity well is less plentiful than normal. Enjoy the times when the writing flows, and when it doesn't, try not to be too hard on yourself. We're all human, and all we can do is our best.

Do you have any writing rituals that help you get into the zone?

WEP April Challenge-Antique Vase

It's April, and that means it's time for another WEP Challenge. This month we have Antique Vase. I hope you enjoy!

Inheritance

The bright light of day hit Donna in the face as she exited the attorney’s office. She squinted as she cradled the antique vase in her arms, keeping one hand atop of it to ensure the lid wouldn’t fall and smash to bits in the parking lot. The heft of it sent waves of pain through her shoulders and down her back. In all the years she admired this vase from afar, she never imagined how heavy it would be.

“I can’t believe she only left you a vase,” Orville said as he walked beside her. He twirled his car keys in his hand, the other shoved deep in his jeans pocket.

Donna glared. The expression was lost behind the massive vase, of course, but the expression still made her feel better. He could probably do with a smack upside the head like she used to deliver when they were kids, but they were in public and her arms were occupied. “Don’t be like that,” she muttered. “I always loved this vase. I was never allowed to touch it as a child. That probably made me love it even more, to be honest.”

Orville shook his head. “I always thought it was ugly.”

Donna bristled at that. The tan paint on the outside was cracked in places, and little chips and dings adorned its surface. Once vibrant red zigzagging lines on the top and bottom had faded to the color of dried blood. Okay, it wasn’t the most beautiful object in the world, but that didn’t dampen her love for it. Her nostalgia goggles wouldn’t allow her to forget all those hours she spent staring at it as a kid, wondering about all the places the vase had been before it took up residence on her aunt’s mantle. Who owned it before? How had it earned all those little imperfections?

“I know Aunt Margaret wasn’t the richest woman in the world, but it seems like you got the short end of the stick,” Orville continued. “You actually visited her regularly. Mom got the house, and they barely got along, for crying out loud. I saw her three times in five years, and I still got her car.”

The car in question was a ten-year-old black Chevy Impala. Aunt Margaret had been proud the day she bought it. “First brand new car I’ve ever owned in my life. It’s about time I treated myself.”

Donna decided not to reply. It would only encourage him to keep babbling, and her patience was wearing thin. She didn’t want to get into an argument.

Aunt Margaret wouldn’t have held back, though. Were she able to hear Orville right then, she’d have given him a piece of her mind. She wasn’t one to mince words.

Their aunt lived alone most of her life. Her husband Charles up and left one day nearly thirty years before. No warning. No explanation. They didn’t have any children, either. Donna assumed her aunt might have moved on and started seeing someone as time went on, but she never did. The only time Donna asked about it, Margaret had shrugged. “I decided I don’t need the drama. I do just fine on my own.”

And she had. She never needed to ask anyone for anything. Perhaps her fierce independence had been intimidating to many, but Donna always admired it. She wished she could feel that confident in her decisions and interactions with others. Maybe if she could bring herself to tell Orville what she thought of his words, he might learn to shut his mouth a bit more often.

Donna almost heaved a sigh of relief when she reached her SUV. She leaned against the rear so she could keep the vase aloft while she fished her key fob out of her pants pocket.

“Talk to you later,” Orville called out as he headed off toward his own vehicle.

“Thanks for the help, little brother,” Donna grumbled under her breath.

The balancing act that followed kept Donna’s blood pressure elevated, but she finally got the rear hatch opened and the vase safely stowed away with some pillows and blankets to cushion it. She still didn’t know where she would keep it in her home, but that was a problem for tomorrow.

*     *     *

The next morning, Donna knelt on her living room floor beside the antique vase. She’d been too tired when she got home to properly study it. She now allowed herself a moment to run a hand over its surface. The rough texture of the surface teased her hand with its history, a secret she would never know. She moved her hand to the lid and, exercising great care, gently started to pry the lid back.

Did she anticipate finding anything hidden within? No. The action came more from the childhood fascination she’d built up around this vase. Kids want to turn over every stone and open every box, after all. This felt like a natural extension of that.

The lid came free easier than Donna expected. She gently set it on the floor and peered inside.

A golden sparkle caught her eye immediately. She reached inside and felt cool metal disks. Her heart nearly stopped when she pulled out a handful of golden coins. Her eyes were on the verge of bulging from her head as she reached in with her other hand. There were more coins inside. Many more, but there was also something else. She closed her fingers around the newly discovered object and fished out a stack of hundred-dollar bills.

She continued to scoop out the unexpected treasure, piling it on the carpet as she went. Her thoughts were wild with the possibilities. How much was here?

“No wonder the vase was so darn heavy,” she said to herself. “It had a secret.” So did Aunt Margaret, for that matter. And, on reflection, Donna knew it would be best to maintain that secret.

Word Count: 990

FCA