One Event: Two Stories

I found another writing exercise from the fiction writing techniques course. This time I remember what the instructor asked of us. She wanted us to recall an event from our early childhood and write down what we remembered and how we felt about it, all from our perspective as children. We were asked to then write about that same event from our adult perspective. I chose to write about a man I remember seeing at the bottom of a flight of stairs one night when I couldn't have been any older than four years old. Years later, I asked my mother about that night and the gaps she filled in for me blew my mind.
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According to a child:

There was loud knocking on the door one night. Mama got up from the table where she read her books and opened up the door. A nice lady that came by the house all the time started laughing and pulled on Mama’s arm to come outside with her. Mama told me to stay there in the living room and then she left with the lady. I was so scared because I heard noise outside, people were opening up their doors and coming outside like Mama had done. I waited a little while then opened the door anyway and went outside too. Our apartment was right next to the stairs that went down to where the big tree was. People stood at the top of the stairs and looked down. There was a dead man laying down there. He looked like the dead people that were on tv and had some leaves in his hair. He had on some jeans and was laying on his back. There was a man standing over the dead man pushing him but he wouldn’t move. The lights on the side of the building were shining down on him and I saw that his eyes were closed and his mouth was open. He had a lot of hair on his face. More people came up behind me to look. People just stood around looking at him. Mama and the woman were still talking like nothing was wrong. I was so scared. Mama saw me and started yelling at me to go back into the apartment. Mama stayed gone for a long time and I sat on the couch watching the flashing lights on the curtain. I was so scared because Mama was still out there with the dead man. When she finally came back in she told me to go to bed, but I kept asking her what had happened. But she just kept saying that I was too young to know. I had a nightmare about that man because he was so close to our front door and he was dead.

According to an adult:

My mother was up late studying at her desk in the living room of our off-campus apartment. I was sitting on the couch doing whatever it is that only children do to occupy themselves. I heard a commotion outside and then a frantic knock at the front door. My mother rushed to open it and there stood her friend and neighbor who always came by to visit us. She was laughing and practically pulled my mother outside; it made my mother laugh too. My mother told me to stay put, and I really did try, but I was such an anxious child and rarely listened to her warnings. I stood at the closed door for a few moments while listening to the hurried footsteps and excited verbal exchanges on the other side. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore and opened the door, peeked my head outside, and looked to my left where the stairway and the people were. We were on the top level of the two-level building. Being such a small child, everyone seemed like giants. I didn’t spot my mother right away. I made my way between the denim clad legs until I made it to the top of the stairs and was able to look down to see what held everyone’s gaze. It was a man in a contorted pose, mouth agape, with leaves and debris in his hair. I remember being very frightened at the sight of this man. At my young age, I thought that he was dead, what child wouldn’t think it, he was lying there motionless with someone standing over him poking him. It took years for the memory of this night to return to me and for me to ask my mother if I was finally old enough to know what happened that night, and for her to tell me exactly who that man was. She laughed and told me that she couldn’t believe that I remembered that, I couldn’t have been any older than two and a half years old she said. My mother said his name was Smitty, a university police officer that had actually just left our apartment along with her friend and neighbor. I’m amazed that I didn’t remember my mother having company, only she and I having a quiet evening at home. Smitty, who had a tendency to drink in excess, and the neighbor left leaving my mother to continue her studies. Some time later, as he walked down the stairs, he tripped and fell to the ground below, and during the tumbling, picked up some debris. It wasn’t a dead man that I remembered, just a man who had passed out from an over indulgence in alcohol.

A Little Respect in a Big World

Hello all, I know it's been a minute, I'm sorry. That thing called life sidetracked me. Tonight while searching for a document on my hard drive, I came across one of my writing exercises for a fiction writing techniques course I took in 2007. I don't remember what the instructor asked us to write about, but whatever it is, this is what I came up with. A story about a petty boss. What do you think?
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A Little Respect in a Big World

I learned too late of the harsh upbringing of our new boss. Had I known before he arrived, I could have warned the others so that things could have turned out differently. If we had known, perhaps now we’d be able to endure the day without periodically excusing ourselves to go outside to contemplate whether or not to return to our desks to resume the tiring, thankless, dreary, confidence shattering hours that define our workday under Mr. Boss’s reign.

But how could we have known that his father, a well respected and tough as nails state prosecutor, upon hearing of his son’s desire to one day follow in his dad’s footsteps, told him that due to his height he would never be effective in the courtroom, that jurors and judges would side with authority figures, men they could respect. That people didn’t respect short men and that law school was not an investment he’d be willing to make for his son who’d be better suited for business and sales. And how was this cruel father to know that those words would drive his son to despise himself and to develop superior intimidation skills to mask his inner turmoil. And that this negativity, like a foul and persistent odor, would remain with all he encountered.

Kevin Richard Boss strode into our 6^th floor editorial office one morning last May with a bloated chest and an expressionless boyish face. He stood there and surveyed us, his new underlings, with the same intimidating glare as an established prison yard bully. We knew the new boss was starting that day, but were caught off guard by this dramatic entrance. Since we’d never spoken a word to this man, his assertion seemed uncalled for and looked absurdly animated. I initially thought that this could be his way of breaking the ice and making us laugh. I wanted to and almost did, but then realized as I studied the coldness in his eyes, that this man, our new leader, was not there to entertain us but had drifted in from the outside to forever change the atmosphere of our cozy little home away from home. The others, Patricia, Tamela, Mike, Judy and Nesim didn’t seem to pick up the vibe that I had. I saw in their eyes, and so did he, a slight amusement at a harmless sourpuss, a tiny man standing not an inch over 5’2 and weighing not a pound over 135; the snug fit of his pinstriped slacks and the rolled up sleeves of his dress shirt only drawing attention to his diminutive stature. He didn’t bother to introduce himself, not that day anyway, continuing on to his office and quietly closing the door so that only a slice of light from his office shone onto the dark hallway carpet.

“I wonder who he’s riding at the Preakness this year?” Pat, our resident comedian, blurted inappropriately. Oh how I wished she’d exercised restraint, all of us really. We laughed and howled and stomped our feet, I perhaps the loudest of them all, at my mental image of him hunched over on top of a speeding streak of brown and black. No one but me seemed to hear fists suddenly slam down on the desk in the boss’ office or notice that the slice of light had vanished from the carpet.

He’d heard our mockery, and if I recall correctly, a collective laugh hasn’t been shared amongst us about anything since.

One year later, here we sit on a Tuesday afternoon, tired from the long hours of the previous two weeks and hungry for food that we were promised but will not receive. Kevin liked to play tricks on us, well that’s how Tamela, the editorial assistant described it. Like today for instance, we smell him eating pizza. Yesterday he told us that today lunch would be on him if his favorite team, the Cavaliers lost a game to the Suns. I blame myself for us not eating pizza today, as I got a little too comfortable with the ‘good natured’ ribbing that ensued and laughed that Cleveland sucked. I and a few others joked that the Phoenix Suns would kick the Cavaliers’ butts. And they did. Like a fool, I believed Kevin would own up to what he promised. I opened the two liter orange soda I’d bought to drink with our pizza, while Mike, our graphics guy, walked down to Hooters to pick up the wings and fries that we agreed to share. But all we could do was rub our bellies to contain the hunger as the delivery guy walked past us with only one medium pizza and headed straight to Kevin’s office.

The End

Check Out My New Article

I wrote an article titled "The Benefits of a Workplace Mentor" that will appear in Thursday Network's Fall 2010 newsletter, scheduled for publishing later this year. Thursday Network is the Washington DC chapter of the National Urban League Young Professionals. This is my second contribution to the newsletter. I wrote "Maintaining Relationships During Economic Hardships" for their Summer 2010 issue.

You can read them both on the writing and editing page of my website, www.jennifersingleton.net.

Please visit Thursday Network's website to learn about the organization's mission and community service accomplishments in the DC area.

Introducing "A Book a Month"

Here's how this is going to work. Each month, starting September 2010, for as long as I can muster the motivation, I will select a book that intrigues me and read it. Ordinarily this isn't a big deal, as I've been known to tackle several good reads in a month's span. What's different is that I'll publish a review of this book on my website www.jennifersingleton.net
on the first (or second) of the following month. I'll let you know when it's ready.

Why am I doing this?

For two reasons: 1) to ensure that my site contains current and diverse writing samples, and 2) to discipline myself by serving as my own editor. I've set deadlines for myself with the understanding that if I can't do right by myself, then I can't do right by anyone else. I've never challenged myself like this before, and the decision to do it has come after a long period of feeling sorry for myself and neglecting to channel the creative energy that inhabits my soul.

September's selection if you haven't guessed by the book jacket is Richard Wright's The Outsider. Two of Wright's titles, Native Son and Black Boy, were required readings in my 10th grade English class. I was so intrigued by Wright's writing style and the adversity his characters faced that when I saw The Outsider in Barnes & Noble, I knew I couldn't leave the store without it. I only hope that I can give the story's protagonist, Cross Damon, justice. Based on what I've read so far, I'm completely mesmerized. Wright hooked me from the first page and he refuses to let me go. When a writer can make a reader experience the emotions I'm experiencing, he or she deserves a standing ovation. Though in reply to this compliment, I can imagine that most of them would say, "I'm just reporting the story as my spirit instructed me to."

Wish me luck. I hope to create something you find interesting. Just knowing someone out there will anticipate it and will check back encourages me more than you know.

Relationships and the Economy

Here is a short article I wrote on maintaining relationships during economic hardship. A much shorter version will appear in an upcoming newsletter issue with a health and quality of living theme.
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Maintaining Healthy Relationships During Economic Hardships

The economic headlines are ominous: “More Layoffs Predicted”; “Unemployment Claims Climbing”; “Millions Without Healthcare.” If you or someone you care about is included in these statistics, you may already be aware of the strain financial hardships can have on relationships with family members, friends, romantic partners, and even coworkers. Below are some common issues that many are facing and ways to cope.

Your Family
The saying “blood is thicker than water” is often used to stress the importance of always having your family’s back, no matter what. But trying to “do right” by your family can pose a strain if you are the only member of a close-knit family who still has a job, or the one who everyone knows has it to spare. This gets even more complicated if multiples hands are extended.

What You Can Do: There is no one right way to go about dealing with a family member in this situation, but what you should remember is the importance of setting realistic limits and not overextending yourself. Trying to do too much is stressful and can interfere in your ability to handle things in your own life. Conversely, if you are the one who is experiencing a financial hardship, you should never try to make a relative feel guilty for faring better in this economy than you, nor should you embarrass him or her by boasting the specifics of their financial situation.

Your Significant Other
Seeing the man or woman you love face job loss or other financial hardship can be the ultimate test of a relationship’s strength survival and ultimate survival. One or both may feel the need to give the other space out of feelings of guilt, embarrassment, or helplessness. “If couples are honest and compassionate with one another, if they learn to work as a team, they could emerge with a better relationship,” says Pepper Schwartz, author of the New York Times article “Difficult But Valuable Conversations.” (April 2009)

What You Can Do: Communicate. Creating an open atmosphere where open and honest discussion can take place without fear of backlash is a vital part of maintaining a romantic relationship during a hardship; particularly one where traditional gender roles may have shifted. If your partner usually foot the bill and can longer do so comfortably, you have to ask yourself if you are comfortable stepping up, and if you are, for how long. If you are the one suffering the hardship, you have to determine how much of an effect you foresee it having on the relationship and communicating with your partner what he or she should expect. During this time, you can mix things up by introducing your spouse or significant other to new and creative activities that are both entertaining and free or low cost. But most importantly know that it is a frustrating time for you both. Your understanding and compassion for each other is needed now more than ever.

Your Friends
When your friends are experiencing financial hardships, you may feel awkward inviting them out to socialize. Or you may feel like you’re bragging by telling them about that kudos you got from your supervisor. Though their finances may be different, they are still your friends and may still want to spend time with you, and most importantly, they still want to root for you as you would for them. Maintaining a sense of normalcy is important for anyone experiencing this type hardship.

What You Can Do: Try to see each other as often as you did before. Simply meeting up for coffee to remind them that you are there can do wonders in maintaining a friendship through a rough patch. And if you can make the time, offer your assistance to help brainstorm new career moves, or keep an eye and ear out for job prospects in their field.

Your Coworkers
When layoffs or department restructuring hits the workplace it can be a very stressful time where anger consumes the laid off. Guilt can overwhelm the layoff survivors as they adjust to the loss of coworkers, a possible increase in workload, and heightened anxiety about how to behave around those who make hiring and firing decisions. The genuineness of workplace relationships is tested during this time, particularly if a workplace buddy gets to stay while you get the boot, or vice versa. Do you stay in touch or what?

What You Can Do: While it is easy to cut your losses when you or a coworker leaves the workplace, it is important to stay in touch with those whose work ethic or accomplishments you admire. Create or maintain existing connections with them on networking sites like Facebook, LinkedIn, and Twitter. And do not neglect the power of a personal phone call. You cannot afford to lose touch. Depending on your industry and the power of your network, you may miss out on an opportunity by allowing too much time to pass.

(Copyright 2010. Jennifer Singleton)

Saturday Evenings's Writing Exercise (Sweety's Finale)

*I've never done a literary freestyle like this before. Each time I would start a new post, I had no idea what I was going to come up with. Somehow it became a continuing story that I refer to as Sweety's Saga. Because I started it back in July I decided to reaquaint you with the beginning, the midde, and the much toiled over 'Sweety's Finale.' I hope that it doesn't disappoint. Enjoy. If you're like me and prefer to start at the original post and pace yourself, then click here.*

Pt. 1

"There's not one man in this world who finds me attractive," Sweety mumbled as she trained with her 5lb weights in the wellness center at her job. This declaration came moments after she realized that the engorged fat cells in her belly had formed a united front of resistance against her attempts to destroy them. Annabelle, a coworker who had lost a significant portion of herself in less than 4 months, finished her ab exercises, yanked out her earphones and told Sweety she was calling it an evening. "Girl, I wish I could work out with weights, my arm strength is crap."

Sweety, always the jokester, made a pained expression and pretended to struggle to lift one of the weights to her shoulder. Annabelle shook her head in amusement and left to retrieve her things from a locker. Sweety held onto the weights long enough for her workout buddy to say a final goodbye, then dropped them to the floor in defeat.

As her sweat-drenched frame approached the staff parking garage, her stomach sent a signal that it was in need of food--but this was impossible, as two hours earlier she'd eaten a thick turkey sandwich and two bananas. That's the thing about cravings, in the absence of your mind having anything else to look forward to, those cravings are always there to offer their company. Her slow pace to the car was due in part for cooling down, but mostly in dread of having to join the aggressive rude drivers on 395 N.

To make matters worse for Sweety, it was Valentine's Day. Stubborn belly fat; no emails or calls from a former, current, or aspiring lover (the latter two didn't exist); and a bed that hadn't served a romantic purpose in two years, all conspired to make the sweaty, chubby, and now hungry publications editor feel like ending this night as soon as possible. A glass of wine and a sugary doughnut had proved to be a potent sleep aid, guaranteed to have her nearly comatose within a hour of consumption. Yes, that's what she'd do. No need in torturing herself with her nightmares of dates' past. No need to go over for the hundredth time that week alone, why she'd never heard back from Knowledge the God, a beautiful man with "knowledge of self" who had approached her in a bookstore a month earlier. Because men never made the first move, his appearance in her life was a good sign, she thought. He exposed her to an underground culture she didn't know existed in her city.

And then, he just stopped calling. Sweety left a few messages, sent some emails, even stopped by a few of the hangouts she knew he frequented. Tonight she was supposed to be with him. Tonight was the night he'd reveal some type of feeling for her, something to reignite her fantasies that she'd put away. But, as had been decided by some cruel mystical force, he had joined the many others who had just vanished. No explanation provided, no closure granted. She'd asked one disappearing act if he could please tell her what she'd done--that there would be no hard feelings and that she wouldn't even bother him after that. Given this "hassle-free" opportunity to fill a clueless Sweety in on what, if anything, she was doing to turn off every single man that crossed her path, Disappearing Act replied "um, not sure how to answer that. you're so sensitive, it doesn't matter what i say, your feelings will be still be hurt. move on, i have."

Sweety paid for her bottle of 2006 chardonnay and small box of chocolate doughnuts (they weren't sold separately) and wished the cashier a goodnight even though the teenage girl had not spoken or made any eye contact with her during the transaction. As she passed by the security guard on her way out, he said very softly "Happy Valentine's Day." Sweety smiled. He seemed like a nice guy, young though, probably not even thirty. For a moment, she contemplated inquiring if after his quitting time would he be interested in walking up the street to her home, showering, then slipping into bed beside her to hold her. His kind face told her that he'd possibly agree.

But her mind warned her that it was all an illusion. That the "yes" that would form in his mind, would change to a "no" by the time it made its way to his mouth. It was just something about her that turned men off. What else could she think? It's not like anyone had told her otherwise.
"Thank you, you too," she said quickly, hot tears preparing to erupt. "Have a good evening."

Pt. 2

The sugar and carb overload had proven ineffective as a sleep aid, much to Sweety's disappointment. She sat on her kitchen floor spinning the empty bottle of white wine, the visually soothing rotations trapping her under a light hypnosis. The basement apartment was curiously quiet this evening. There were always strange creaks occuring at night, the agitated rumblings of the previous tenant's ghost she suspected. When she moved in, the landlord, who lived upstairs, figured she had the right to know that the "other guy" had been shot to death in the apartment. He didn't realize his tenant was dead until the smell started coming up through the vents.

The ringing phone beckoned Sweety to rejoin her depression already in progress. She had a feeling of who it was, the only person who ever called this late, her cousin Jocelyn. But why would she be calling on Valentine's night? Jocelyn was a part of Atlanta's hip, in-crowd, a beautiful woman who was sought after by many well-established and connected men. She regularly called her cuz in DC to "check in," but Sweety was sure it was to brag on the fabulous life of Jocelyn Jones. Since all her ATL buddies were on the same level or higher, they wouldn't be impressed about her vacationing in Barbados with a Falcons player--but Sweety would.

Unknown caller. "Hello?" Sweety listened for her cuz's usual "Hey sweets, what's happening?" But there was only silence. She repeated the greeting and was met with a hangup. A few minutes later, the same thing. On the third time, Sweety waited a while before answering.
"Yes, hello?"
"Sweety? I'm calling because your name is in my man's phone, and you're the only contact of his I haven't heard about. How do you know Raymond?"
"Excuse me, who? I think you have the wrong number?"
"Then how did I know to ask for you by name? I didn't call for games, just to find out your affiliation with my man."

Sweety was timid by nature, considered shy by most who met her. But everybody has another side to balance out the one that the world sees. When backed into a corner, the chubby editor knew how to come out swinging, in her own little way. But this event was so peculiar, Sweety remained calm as she pondered if this was indeed her aunt playing on the phone.
"Jocelyn?"
"I'll be whoever you need me to be. Just stay the hell away from Raymond and we'll be okay."

Sweety sighed. "Ma'am, if you knew me at all, then you'd realize that you have the wrong person. I'm overweight and lonely, sexually neglected, and keep to myself most of the time. Had Raymond ever dialed this number, I would surely tell you, if only from the lingering disbelief that a man actually called me. I can't do this with you right now, I'm quite depressed and was contemplating suicide before you called. Your man is not interested in me, I assure you."

"Are you serious? I'm so sorry, ma'am, damn. I don't how Papi got your number, I don't even care at this point, 'cause I'm not trying to be the last person you spoke to. Please get some help." The caller hung up.

Sweety didn't feel any kind of way about the unusual discourse, her life seemed to be dictated by bizarre happenings like this. She threw away the wine bottle and empty box and took a few steps toward the bathroom before emitting a loud "Oh my god! I do know Raymond!" Sweety practically flew to turn on the computer, cursing at the excruciatingly long few moments it took to connect to the Internet.

A series of frantic keystrokes later she was reunited with the face of the man she'd successfully blocked out of her memory for the past year--Raymond "Papi" Carter, owner of the online community The Terror and Pleasure Garden.

Pt. 3

"Tell me what you desire most."
"Do you have all night? I desire a lot of things."
"As do I. But every list begins with one thing. That thing, or desire, is usually the most important."
Sweety held the phone to her ear the way she would have held his hand to her cheek.
"A man’s touch."
"I see," he said thoughtfully. "That's interesting. Tell me, Sweety, would you say you are suffering from skin hunger?"
"I never thought about it that way, but yes, I would say that."
"What terrifies you the most?"
"Drowning. I can’t swim and almost drowned when I was little."

Raymond, "Papi," took some time before replying. Sweety knew he was contemplating something profound, everything he said seemed like it belonged in a text book. She had discovered his blog Mind Factor two weeks earlier and was immediately intrigued at his eloquence and intelligence in his latest post in which he described the often taboo relationship between fear and eroticism. She left a comment and the link to her own blog, Loserville, Population: Me. Papi visited her blog and over the course of several days generously left detailed replies to all 75 posts. This was her fourth consecutive night of intense phone communication with him. During that short time, he had managed to coax experiences and personal admissions from Sweety that she dared only repeat to herself.

Finally he said “I know what you need. For the two extremes to collide--can you imagine what that would do to your senses? To fear your surroundings, but to squirm in pleasure beneath the hands that confine you there."
And that's when he started to tell her about a special underworld he governed, complete with clients and a collage of "wishmasters" who served those clients' needs.

The incoming laughter that pierced the silence of the ladies room prompted Sweety to flush the toilet she'd been sitting on for the past half hour. She hadn't come in there to relieve herself, only to think; but the intruder didn't know that and would expect to hear a flush after hearing someone lift themselves off of the squeaky toilet lid. Sweety took her time until the person was securely locked into a stall, then emerged, washed her hands and returned to her cubicle.

The work day was nearing its end and though her physical presence had interacted with coworkers, sat through two production meetings, responded to and initiated over twenty-five e-mails, edited a 7500 word newsletter, ate lunch, and refilled her coffee mug several times—her mind had entertained nothing but thoughts of Papi, and the phone call from his "woman." That liar. Perhaps she was a naive fool who he had charmed into believing was his one and only. If the woman knew anything about his Terror and Pleasure network, she'd know better than to fool herself. Her number was still in his phone after all this time, it made no sense. Papi surely knew hundreds of adventurous women, probably thousands. Why would he keep the contact information of an overweight bookworm who as he put it "didn't know how to let herself go"?

As coworkers passed her desk and said their goodnights and see you tomorrows, it occurred to Sweety for the first time that the "Anonymous" commenter who would leave a creepy haiku on her blog at least once a week could actually be Mr. Carter himself. She had blocked out so much that she never connected the two. She realized now that the reason she hadn't gotten over what happened wasn't because of it slipping her mind because of it insignificance. Her memory had been disrupted. The night a ski-masked Papi and one of his wishmasters made her fear and desire collide was far too frightening...and pleasurable to not have affected something. And now, the gates had been unlocked. But why?

Pt. 4

One year ago...

The night Papi decided to formally introduce himself started out the same as most of the others.

Sweety came home a little earlier than usual thanks to her supervisor being out on vacation. She ate the leftovers from her lo mein noodle lunch, took a long shower, watched a few Seinfeld episodes, pondered man's purpose on earth over two cups of Sumatra coffee, finished reading an erotic novel that due was back to the library the next day, talked on the phone with her cousin Darrylyn who was due to give birth before week's end, and finally settled into bed before realizing two things: she wasn't sleepy at all and it was only 11:45. An habitual night owl, this time of night was no different than 7 or 8pm. Her loyal companion, a high speed Internet connection, beckoned to be accessed, and so she obliged.

After an hour of the same old sites, she remembered that it had been weeks since she'd perused the Craigslist 'Missed Connections' ads. Sweety was a true romantic, and though she knew that no one would ever make a post about her, she loved to read the M4W and W4M to see if two people were looking for each other. Months before during one of these cross references, she stumbled on a guy who wrote
"Me: the white guy with orange hair wearing dorky glasses and black t-shirt that read Will Hump For Food. You: the gorgeous redhead wearing a pink top and khaki skirt who of all things you could've chosen from asked about my watch. I was an idiot for not getting your number. Will hump for food and a chance to see you again. LOL."

Sweety smiled and moved over to the women's side, where two ads down she saw
"You're probably too cool to read these things, but why not. I saw you today around 2:30 (I think) near Mama's Kitchen and loved your style. I had on a pink top and you liked my tattoo. Have you humped for food yet? (I'll know you're real if you know what this means). Anyway, I think you're hot but was too shy to ask for your number. Lame, I know."

Acting on pure excitement, she emailed the woman the link to the guy's ad, and did the same for the guy. About an hour later, she got two emails, one from each of them, thanking her profusely for butting in. She hadn't been able to create that magic again, but it wasn't from a lack of trying.

Tonight however, she had a selfish motive for reading the M4W. She had been running a lot of errands that week and was wondering if someone out there had noticed her. She had lost a few pounds and was just wondering if the change had beckoned anyone's eyes enough to pull out their laptop or Blackberry and draft something.

No one was looking for her.

But someone was obviously thinking of her, for no sooner had she shut off the computer, determined to fall asleep, she received a call from a blocked number. She knew it was Papi.
"Well hello there."
"Greetings. What has Sweety desired today?"
"Um, let's see...money, an island vacation, a shot of tequila, and maybe to see you in person."
As unpretty as she usually felt, when in the presence of a man, she knew how to flirt.
"I can do something about one of them; that is, if you've thought about what we talked about earlier."
"About my fear and desire colliding? Uh, no, I haven't thought about it. Why do you care anyway?"
"I'm in tuned to what people need. Though some might consider my ideas a bit extreme, when executed correctly, inhibitions are permanently freed. Imagine feeling free, Sweety. Imagine abandoning your frigid ways to embrace the insatiable appetite we both know lives inside you."
Sweety smiled as she fiddled with the phone cord. Raymond "Papi" Carter was a man who spoke a bit of truth.
"Think about hot and cold water--two extremes both intolerable in their own right," he continued. "But when they come together, the result is soothing. That's what I feel about your fear of water and your need to be touched. Sweety, I can see to it that you practically have an out of body experience."

Maybe it was the weeks and weeks of his coaxing, maybe it was her vulnerable state after seeing that no one had posted an ad about her, but there was definitely something that made her utter, "Suppose I was curious. What would I need to do?"
Though some of the stuff Papi talked about seemed out there and even a little creepy, she hadn't experienced this type of curiosity in a long time. The lure of it all was too much to resist. She wanted so very much to see his face.
The long period of silence prompted her to ask if he were still there.
"Yes, I'm here. I'm just waiting on you to giggle and backtrack."
"I'm serious, really. I want to know what you and these so-called wishmasters are all about. And why you're so interested in doing this for free when you said that people actually pay you a lot of money."
"Then here's what I want you to do. In one hour I want you to get dressed, get in your car, drive to Manor Park, park at the entrance gate, leave your keys in the ignition, and walk toward the white teddy bear you'll see tied to the gate."
"Then what?"
"Shhh..."

With that, he hung up. And Sweety walked to her closet to retrieve a pair of jeans.

Sweety's Finale

Raymond "Papi" Carter disconnected the call with Sweety and lie in bed for a few minutes, contemplating what he should do now that she had taken him up on his offer. It was true that he and a group of wishmasters acted out peculiar requests, but this was done only in his online interactive world Terror and Pleasure Garden. His clients had avatars and paid pricey membership fees for this elaborate role play. In the beginning he assumed Sweety knew it wasn't "real," but by her questions realized she really believed he and a masked gang set to the streets to fulfill thrill seekers' fantasies. Papi wanted to clear things up, but she was so fascinated about it all that his ego wouldn't allow him to reveal the truth. Besides, the thought of actually bringing these "setups" to life had begun to excite him in ways that fantasy had ceased to do long ago. And now, after patient nudging, sweet little Sweety had finally given in.

He didn't have much time to put things into action, so many thoughts were running through his mind along with possible coconspirators. Manor Park had a small pond that would be perfect for the drowning simulation. Grand Punisher, his next door neighbor and first wishmaster would be the perfect choice. He had a preference for "thick" ladies and also enjoyed rough encounters, so he would know exactly how to handle Sweety who would assuredly be fighting with all she had. Papi rarely involved himself in the "games" between his players, he was more a moderator than anything. But as he searched his mind for the perfect choice to induce her pleasure, he could think of no other than himself. Papi wanted to be the one to experience this. Over the course of their getting to know each other, he had started to develop some type of feeling for her, he couldn't help it.

Sweety was was the most naive grown woman he'd ever encountered and seemed so much in need of love, any kind of love really. She had only one picture on her blog Loserville, Population: Me, a "shoulder up" shot, the sign of someone with fat to hide. Sweety wasn't a sexy woman...not yet anyway; it was her potential that aroused him, that appealed to that innate investigator in him to figure out the right combination to unlock the uninhibited freak beneath. Still, she seemed like the nicest woman left on earth, and though she'd undoubtedly been outcast from the dating world, carried herself like she was worth something anyway. If the circumstances were different, he wouldn't mind being that long-term shoulder that she needed.

Gus, "Grand Punisher," listened intently as Raymond described how he thought the scenario should go, choosing to wait before expressing his disbelief at the idea of bringing the game to real life. Gus, a high school buddy of Raymond, used to get off on the whole terror and pleasure thing when he became the Terror and Pleasure Garden's first wishmaster three years before. But since becoming more involved with a group of gods and earths and coming into a knowledge of self, was losing interest in playing online sex and punishment games.

When his friend was finished, Gus stood and said "I knew this would happen one day. I knew that one day you would get bored and want to raise the bar. Really think about the things you want us to do to that lady. How do you know she won't go to the police and have us arrested and charged with multiple felonies."
"I can say for a fact that she will never tell a soul; on my net worth she won't. Come on, G, just help me out this one time, I won't ask you to do it again. I just want to know what it's like. And she's down with it. It's not like she's scared about it. It'll be the most exciting thing that's ever happened to her and isn't that what we're all about?"
"If I help you out with this, Ray, I want out after it's done. Grand Punisher will be retired. Agreed?"
"Alright man, if that's what you want. But don't half ass this tonight, take it as far as you can."

After it was all over, Gus watched Papi walk the cold, shaking, and crying woman back to her car. Papi looked back at him and gave him a thumbs up followed by the peace sign. Gus understood it as "good job man" and "a deal is a deal."

******

Three days after the phone call brought the memory Raymond "Papi" Carter back in her life...

Sweety grabbed her $10 bill and keys off the counter and rushed to open the door for who she assumed was the Chinese takeout delivery guy ringing the bell. This was his fastest time yet. But her eyes meet a visitor she wasn't expecting to see. Knowledge the God, the beautiful man who had brought joy into her world then took it back when he disappeared mysteriously, stood there with eyes reddened and tired from crying or lack of sleep, or both.
"Knowlege? Hey." Even though she still cared for this man, there was something very eerie in the atmosphere, so much so that she was thankful that her burglar door was locked.
"Sweety, I...I...I'm sorry about leaving you hanging like that. Oh man, wow, I know I gotta do this but it's hard."
"What's going on?"
"I stopped calling you because I was starting to fall for you and my guilt couldn’t let me reciprocate."
"Guilt over what?"
Knowledge put his head down as he struggled with the right words. "We didn’t meet at the bookstore, we met in Manor Park. I'm the man who drug you to the pond." Knowledge’s voice cracked and he dropped his head in shame.

As strong as Sweety was trying to be on the inside, her entire body began to tremble. She began to feel dizzy and grasped the burglar door for support. Knowledge reached out to gently touch her fingers but she jerked them away.
"Are you serious?"
"It was me."
"How can this be happening? Why are you doing this to me? Are you after more kicks? Come on, after a year? How sick are you?"
"I haven’t talked to Ray since that night. I don't do that anymore, I swear."
"So when we met at the bookstore, what was that about? Were you Knowledge, or a wishmaster?"
"Knowledge. When you and I started talking, I realized who you were. I wanted to walk away, but knew that I had to repent in some kind of way by showing you the best person I could be. Then after a while I got scared. I'm not here for kicks, Sweety, I’m here because I care a lot about you."
"And you don't associate with him anymore?"
"No."
"Why, because of me?"
"Not entirely. You just change."
"Just like that? How do I know this isn't part two, or that you aren't trying to hurt me?"
"I came here to make amends for taking things too far, and then not telling you who I was before now. Forgive me for that. But if you want to treat me like I'm some monster who kidnapped an unsuspecting woman, let me remind you that you cam eon your own. I know Raymond and I'm sure he didn't ask you to meet him for a candlelit picnic. You were holding the teddy bear, which meant that you must have read the note that was attached to it. Remember the note? "If you untie me from this fence you consent to play" I wrote that, that's how I know what it says. I was trying to give you an out, which you didn't take, because I wasn't convinced you knew what the Terror and Pleasure Garden was really about."

Sweety unlocked the burglard door as the delivery guy sprinted toward them with her takeout order. He offered a pleasant greeting, but the transaction remained silent as he observed the couple's stoic expressions.

Sweety wanted to close the door and leave Knowledge standing there, she really did. But his stare was so intense and communicative that it was captivating. Here stood a man who in such a short period of time had helped her expand her knowledge of different cultures, music, and schools of thought. Brutish wishmaster turned profound poet, fellow bookworm, seeker of enlightenment, and rare soul who took direction from his heart instead of his eyes.

"Well I should go and let you enjoy your food. I just wanted to look you in the face and tell you the truth about what I did, and to tell you that I enjoyed getting to know you, but if I can’t be honest with someone, I have a hard time being in their presence. That's why I left. I came back to see if...nevermind. I hope that you find it in your heart to forgive me." With that, Knowledge turned to leave.

Sweety had to make a decision, but feared whatever she chose would only have her doubting her judgment. If she banished him, she'd wonder if he was her meant to be; an odd and less than magical first meeting, yes, but her soul mate nonetheless. And she did agree to be a player in Papi's game, request it even, right? If she forgave and agreed to continue where they left off without first putting him through hell and back, he might lose respect for her for making it too easy for him. She was very experienced with the consequences of not acting the part of the angry, neck-rolling, car-keying, out for revenge bitch, who interestingly, men claimed to despise yet found utterly irresistible. Was she insane? Who in their right mind would even be standing there pondering an option other than slamming the door?

"I went to see Rakim El perform at Dojo last week, I remember you telling me about him." Knowledge looked back with a surprised smirk.
"Wow, really. He’s phenomenal, did you enjoy it?"
"Yeh. And I even understood a little of what he was saying because of the lessons we used to talk about." Knowledge smiled like he was proud of her. There was the guy she remembered.

The adrenaline that was dispatched in apprehension earlier had now received another assignment from the control center. One that left Sweety feeling helpless as the corners of her mouth began to tilt upwards, and her system began to receive frantic messages from her senses, which had started processing the warm, earthy aroma of the homemade body oil Knowledge's skin had absorbed, the firm but gentle tone of his voice, the fact that this man was the first one to ever show up at her door of his own accord. The first who just had to see her.

"Are you hungry?"
"A little."
“So let’s eat.”
Knowledge appeared hesitant to enter her apartment.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Sweety. It’s so very nice to meet you.”
"Hi, Sweety. My given name is Gus Josephson, but I ask that you refer to me as Knowledge the God, or Knowledge."
“Would you care to come in, Knowledge? I need some help devouring my steamed vegetables and fried rice?”
"Why thank you. But, I need to know something, for real, Sweety...do you forgive me?"
"I forgive you. Come on let's eat." Sweety Fisher bit her bottom lip in appreciation as her eyes followed the former wishmaster's impressive frame.

The bizarre god who controlled her world was at it again, never satisfied with the cruelties he directed her way. Surely, the reveal of the man she had fallen for as the masked one who had held her under water should have been frightening, driving her further into depression. But strangely, Sweety welcomed this surprise. She stopped trying to make sense of her life long ago. She'd come to realize that her life would consist of bizarre opportunities to step out of her boring character, to make her fantasies reality; and that she could either choose to ride the wave and enjoy it, or run away and hide. She wanted to start riding. To indulge that insatiable appetite that Papi had correctly surmised existed inside of her.

Though she'd blocked out Papi's face and the events of that night, her body kept a back up file and remembered what it felt out there, gentle hands on her breasts, a firm grip around her neck. When Sweety attempted to relive the pleasure at her own hands, she couldn't even come close. And now, the person who could make it happen had returned, and whether he would want to or not, would have no choice but to play a new kind of game, one that would ease her nagging suffering...over and over and over again.

The End

*And there it is folks. I started this blog to help me overcome frequent bouts of writer's block. I didn't know what I'd be posting about, but I knew that I had to keep posting, to keep writing in hopes that it would transfer over to my private efforts. Writing about Sweety has helped. And now I'll see about what I can do to advance the other people who live in word documents on my hard drive, crying out for completion just like Sweety and Papi and Grand Punisher turned Knowledge the God. Thank you for reading my little creation. Another one might come soon, but don't quote me on that. Anyway, please enjoy my other musings as they come. --Love, Jennifer*

Saturday Evening's Writing Exercise (pt.4)

One year ago...

The night Papi decided to formally introduce himself started out the same as most of the others.

Sweety came home a little earlier than usual thanks to her supervisor being out on vacation. She ate the leftovers from her lo mein noodle lunch, took a long shower, watched a few Seinfeld episodes, pondered man's purpose on earth over two cups of Sumatra coffee, finished reading an erotic novel that due was back to the library the next day, talked on the phone with her cousin Darrylyn who was due to give birth before week's end, and finally settled into bed before realizing two things: she wasn't sleepy at all and it was only 11:45. An habitual night owl, this time of night was no different than 7 or 8pm. Her loyal companion, a high speed Internet connection, beckoned to be accessed, and so she obliged.

After an hour of the same old sites, she remembered that it had been weeks since she'd perused the Craigslist 'Missed Connections' ads. Sweety was a true romantic, and though she knew that no one would ever make a post about her, she loved to read the M4W and W4M to see if two people were looking for each other. Months before during one of these cross references, she stumbled on a guy who wrote
"Me: the white guy with orange hair wearing dorky glasses and black t-shirt that read Will Hump For Food. You: the gorgeous redhead wearing a pink top and khaki skirt who of all things you could've chosen from asked about my watch. I was an idiot for not getting your number. Will hump for food and a chance to see you again. LOL."

Sweety smiled and moved over to the women's side, where two ads down she saw
"You're probably too cool to read these things, but why not. I saw you today around 2:30 (I think) near Mama's Kitchen and loved your style. I had on a pink top and you liked my tattoo. Have you humped for food yet? (I'll know you're real if you know what this means). Anyway, I think you're hot but was too shy to ask for your number. Lame, I know."

Acting on pure excitement, she emailed the woman the link to the guy's ad, and did the same for the guy. About an hour later, she got two emails, one from each of them, thanking her profusely for butting in. She hadn't been able to create that magic again, but it wasn't from a lack of trying.

Tonight however, she had a selfish motive for reading the M4W. She had been running a lot of errands that week and was wondering if someone out there had noticed her. She had lost a few pounds and was just wondering if the change had beckoned anyone's eyes enough to pull out their laptop or Blackberry and draft something.

No one was looking for her.

But someone was obviously thinking of her, for no sooner had she shut off the computer, determined to fall asleep, she received a call from a blocked number. She knew it was Papi, he'd called once before.

"Well hello there."
"Greetings. What has Sweety desired today?"
"Um, let's see...money, an island vacation, a shot of tequila, and maybe to see you in person." As unpretty as she usually felt, when in the presence of a man, she knew how to flirt.
"I can do something about one of them; that is, if you've thought about what we talked about earlier."
"About my fear and desire colliding? Uh, no, I haven't thought about it. Why do you care anyway?"
"I'm in tuned to what people need. Though some might consider my ideas a bit extreme, when executed correctly, inhibitions are permanently freed. Imagine feeling free, Sweety. Imagine abandoning your frigid ways to embrace the insatiable appetite we both know lives inside you."
Sweety smiled as she fiddled with the phone cord. Raymond "Papi" Carter was a man who spoke a bit of truth.
"Think about hot and cold water--two extremes both intolerable in their own right," he continued. "But when they come together, the result is soothing. That's what I feel about your fear of water and your need to be touched. Sweety, I can see to it that you practically have an out of body experience."

Maybe it was the weeks and weeks of his coaxing, maybe it was her vulnerable state after seeing that no one had posted an ad about her, but there was definitely something that made her utter, "Suppose I was curious. What would I need to do?"
Though some of the stuff Papi talked about seemed out there and even a little creepy, she hadn't experienced this type of curiosity in a long time. The lure of it all was too much to resist. She wanted so very much to see his face.
The long period of silence prompted her to ask if he were still there.
"Yes, I'm here. I'm just waiting on you to giggle and backtrack."
"I'm serious, really. I want to know what you and these so-called wishmasters are all about. And why you're so interested in doing this for free when you said that people actually pay you a lot of money."

"Then here's what I want you to do. In one hour I want you to get dressed, get in your car, drive to Manor Park, park at the entrance gate, leave your keys in the ignition, and walk toward the white teddy bear you'll see tied to the gate."
"Then what?"
"Shhh..."

With that, he hung up. And Sweety walked to her closet to retrieve a pair of jeans.

Wednesday Night's Writing Exercise (pt.3)

"Tell me what you desire most."
"Do you have all night? I desire a lot of things."
"As do I. But every list begins with one thing. That thing, or desire, is usually the most important."
Sweety held the phone to her ear the way she would have held his hand to her cheek.
"A man’s touch."
"I see," he said thoughtfully. "That's interesting. Tell me, Sweety, would you say you are suffering from skin hunger?"
"I never thought about it that way, but yes, I would say that."
"What terrifies you the most?"
"Drowning. I can’t swim and almost drowned when I was little."

Raymond, "Papi," took some time before replying. Sweety knew he was contemplating something profound, everything he said seemed like it belonged in a text book.

She had discovered his blog Mind Factor two weeks earlier and was immediately intrigued at his eloquence and intelligence in his latest post in which he described the often taboo relationship between fear and eroticism. She left a comment and the link to her own blog, Loserville, Population: Me. Papi visited her blog and over the course of several days generously left detailed replies to all 75 posts.This was her fourth consecutive night of intense phone communication with him. During that short time, he had managed to coax experiences and personal admissions from Sweety that she dared only repeat to herself.

Finally he said “I know what you need. For the two extremes to collide--can you imagine what that would do to your senses? To fear your surroundings, but to squirm in pleasure beneath the hands that confine you there." And that's when he started to tell her about a special underworld he governed, complete with clients and a collage of "wishmasters" who served those clients' needs.

The incoming laughter that pierced the silence of the ladies room prompted Sweety to flush the toilet she'd been sitting on for the past half hour. She hadn't come in there to relieve herself, only to think; but the intruder didn't know that and would expect to hear a flush after hearing someone lift themselves off of the squeaky toilet lid. Sweety took her time until the person was securely locked into a stall, then emerged, washed her hands and returned to her cubicle.

The work day was nearing its end and though her physical presence had interacted with coworkers, sat through two production meetings, responded to and initiated over twenty-five e-mails, edited a 7500 word newsletter, ate lunch, and refilled her coffee mug several times—her mind had entertained nothing but thoughts of Papi, and the phone call from his "woman." That liar. Perhaps she was a naive fool who he had charmed into believing was his one and only. If the woman knew anything about his Terror and Pleasure network, she'd know better than to fool herself. Her number was still in his phone after all this time, it made no sense. Papi surely knew hundreds of adventurous women, probably thousands. Why would he keep the contact information of an overweight bookworm who as he put it "didn't know how to let herself go"?

As coworkers passed her desk and said their goodnights and see you tomorrows, it occurred to Sweety for the first time that the "Anonymous" commenter who would leave a creepy haiku on her blog at least once a week could actually be Mr. Carter himself. She had blocked out so much that she never connected the two.

She realized now that the reason she hadn't gotten over what happened wasn't because of it slipping her mind because of it insignificance. Her memory had been disrupted. The night a ski-masked Papi and one of his wishmasters made her fear and desire collide was far too frightening...and pleasurable to not have affected something.

And now, the gates had been unlocked. But why?

Wednesday Afternoon's Writing Exercise (pt.2)

The sugar and carb overload had proven ineffective as a sleep aid, much to Sweety's disappointment. She sat on her kitchen floor spinning the empty bottle of white wine, the visually soothing rotations trapping her under a light hypnosis. The basement apartment was curiously quiet this evening. There were always strange creaks occuring at night, the agitated rumblings of the previous tenant's ghost she suspected. When she moved in, the landlord, who lived upstairs, figured she had the right to know that the "other guy" had been shot to death in the apartment. He didn't realize his tenant was dead until the smell started coming up through the vents.

The ringing phone beckoned Sweety to rejoin her depression already in progress. She had a feeling of who it was, the only person who ever called this late, her cousin Jocelyn. But why would she be calling on Valentine's night? Joselyn was a part of Atlanta's hip, in-crowd, a beautiful woman who was sought after by many well-established and connected men. She regularly called her cuz in DC to "check in," but Sweety was sure it was to brag on the fabulous life of Jocelyn Jones. Since all her ATL buddies were on the same level or higher, they wouldn't be impressed about her vacationing in Barbados with a Falcons player--but Sweety would.

Unknown caller. "Hello?" Sweety listened for her cuz's usual "Hey sweets, what's happening?"But there was only silence. She repeated the greeting and was met with a hangup. A few minutes later, the same thing. On the third time, Sweety waited a while before answering.
"Yes, hello?"
"Sweety? I'm calling because your name is in my man's phone, and you're the only contact of his I haven't heard about. How do you know Raymond?"
"Excuse me, who? I think you have the wrong number?"
"Then how did I know to ask for you by name? I didn't call for games, just to find out your affiliation with my man."

Sweety was timid by nature, considered shy by most who met her. But everybody has another side to balance out the one that the world sees. When backed into a corner, the chubby editor knew how to come out swinging, in her own little way. But this event was so peculiar, Sweety remained calm as she pondered if this was indeed her aunt playing on the phone.
"Jocelyn?"
"I'll be whoever you need me to be. Just stay the hell away from Raymond and we'll be okay."

Sweety sighed. "Ma'am, if you knew me at all, then you'd realize that you have the wrong person. I'm overweight and lonely, sexually neglected, and keep to myself most of the time. Had Raymond ever dialed this number, I would surely tell you, if only from the lingering disbelief that a man actually called me. I can't do this with you right now, I'm quite depressed and was contemplating suicide before you called. Your man is not interested in me, I assure you."

"Are you serious? I'm so sorry, ma'am, damn. I don't how Papi got your number, I don't even care at this point, 'cause I'm not trying to be the last person you spoke to. Please get some help." The caller hung up.

Sweety didn't feel any kind of way about the unusual discourse, her life seemed to be dictated by bizarre happenings like this. She threw away the wine bottle and empty box and took a few steps toward the bathroom before emitting a loud "Oh my god! I do know Raymond!" Sweety practically flew to turn on the computer, cursing at the excruciatingly long few moments it took to connect to the Internet.

A series of frantic keystrokes later she was reunited with the face of the man she'd successfully blocked out of her memory for the past year--Raymond "Papi" Carter, owner of the online community The Terror and Pleasure Garden.

-J.S.

Thursday Night's Writing Exercise (pt.1)

"There's not one man in this world who finds me attractive," Sweety mumbled as she trained with her 5lb weights in the wellness center at her job. This declaration came moments after she realized that the engorged fat cells in her belly had formed a united front of resistance against her attempts to destroy them. Annabelle, a coworker who had lost a significant portion of herself in less than 4 months, finished her ab exercises, yanked out her earphones and told Sweety she was calling it an evening. "Girl, I wish I could work out with weights, my arm strength is crap." Sweety, always the jokester, made a pained expression and pretended to struggle to lift one of the weights to her shoulder. Annabelle shook her head in amusement and left to retrieve her things from a locker. Sweety held onto the weights long enough for her workout buddy to say a final goodbye, then dropped them to the floor in defeat.

As her sweat-drenched frame approached the staff parking garage, her stomach sent a signal that it was in need of food--but this was impossible, as two hours earlier she'd eaten a thick turkey sandwich and two bananas. That's the thing about cravings, in the absence of your mind having anything else to look forward to, those cravings are always there to offer their company. Her slow pace to the car was due in part for cooling down, but mostly in dread of having to join the aggressive rude drivers on 395 N.

To make matters worse for Sweety, it was Valentine's Day. Stubborn belly fat; no emails or calls from a former, current, or aspiring lover (the latter two didn't exist); and a bed that hadn't served a romantic purpose in two years, all conspired to make the sweaty, chubby, and now hungry publications editor feel like ending this night as soon as possible. A glass of wine and a sugary doughnut had proved to be a potent sleep aid, guaranteed to have her nearly comatose within a hour of consumption. Yes, that's what she'd do. No need in torturing herself with her nightmares of dates' past. No need to go over for the hundredth time that week alone, why she'd never heard back from Knowledge the God, a beautiful man with "knowledge of self" who had approached her in a bookstore a month earlier. Because men never made the first move, his appearance in her life was a good sign, she thought. He exposed her to an underground culture she didn't know existed in her city.

And then, he just stopped calling. Sweety left a few messages, sent some emails, even stopped by a few of the hangouts she knew he frequented. Tonight she was supposed to be with him. Tonight was the night he'd reveal some type of feeling for her, something to reignite her fantasies that she'd put away. But, as had been decided by some cruel mystical force, he had joined the many others who had just vanished. No explanation provided, no closure granted. She'd asked one disappearing act if he could please tell her what she'd done--that there would be no hard feelings and that she wouldn't even bother him after that. Given this "hassle-free" opportunity to fill a clueless Sweety in on what, if anything, she was doing to turn off every single man that crossed her path, Disappearing Act replied "um, not sure how to answer that. you're so sensitive, it doesn't matter what i say, your feelings will be still be hurt. move on, i have."

Sweety paid for her bottle of 2006 chardonnay and small box of chocolate doughnuts (they weren't sold separately) and wished the cashier a goodnight even though the teenage girl had not spoken or made any eye contact with her during the transaction. As she passed by the security guard on her way out, he said very softly "Happy Valentine's Day." Sweety smiled. He seemed like a nice guy, young though, probably not even thirty. For a moment, she contemplated inquiring if after his quitting time would he be interested in walking up the street to her home, showering, then slipping into bed beside her to hold her. His kind face told her that he'd possibly agree.

But her mind warned her that it was all an illusion. That the "yes" that would form in his mind, would change to a "no" by the time it made its way to his mouth. It was just something about her that turned men off. What else could she think? It's not like anyone had told her otherwise.

"Thank you, you too," she said quickly, hot tears preparing to erupt. "Have a good evening."

-J.S.