Ramblings of a Wanna-be Fiction Writer

It was amazing—that she could find a job that quickly and then lose it so easily. It was nothing about what she did; it was all about what she didn’t do. It wasn’t until it was too late change anything that she found out how she lost her career.

She taught public school. It was her first real job, her first career, and she had seen herself working happily in the field of education for the rest of her life. Her dreams, however, were cut short by one hateful woman. Often, she referred to this woman as Big Red, a term she had picked up from one of her favorite television shows. She had respected this woman, and she looked up to her as a fellow educator—someone who had worked in the field she so desperately wanted to be a part of for the rest of her working life. These ideas of rapture and fascination for a human being were soon squelched.

It was a brisk, fall morning when she attended her first day working at the school. She met many students, and by the end of the day she couldn’t differentiate between most of them and couldn’t remember 80% of the names she had learned. It was a basic, first-year-teacher’s first day on the job. The first grading period came, and by then she could actually remember who most of her students were without mixing them up. However, as she looked over her first set of report cards, a frown crossed her face. Of her eighty or so students, over sixty of them were failing her class. She had no idea what had transpired to cause such a failing rate, but she knew she was going to find out.

The second grading period started with angry parent phone calls, unplanned parent/teacher conferences, and added responsibilities to her work load that no flesh-and-blood human could complete successfully. Yet her campus administrator expected and required her to do so. By the end of the second grading period, her failing rate had dropped from sixty to forty. She believed this was a significant improvement—her administrator, however, had other ideas. 

The third grading period is now best remembered as the few weeks when she remained at school until at least six in the evening. Her days were full of activities, meetings, conferences, observations, and other things she found unnecessary. It wasn’t her fault the students were failing; she wasn’t purposefully giving them failing grades; somehow, the students had in their own minds that she would pass them even when they didn’t turn in the work. Her teaching philosophy explained her stand point on this issue, yet no one paid it any mind. Her first semester of teaching ended as she closed her documentation on every parent/teacher conference she had held—three a day every day after school, lasting for five weeks.

The second semester of her teaching career began with her attempts to regain control of her classes. This was also when she realized that she was overworked. She not only had a second job on top of this career, but she had also signed up to assist with community theatre. It was this latter portion of her schedule that caused a rift between herself and her administrator. One email ruined her career. When she informed her administrator that she would be unable to work a sporting event due to her overwhelming schedule, her administrator informed her that she would be required to work at least two sporting events before the year was out. However, she was unable to fulfill such an obligation.

Her students were finally realizing that their work must be turned in for them to receive passing grades, and many were doing well in her class. However, this was the semester that was plagued with the ever-existing administrative requirements of her position. After hostile emails and harsh words were exchanged between herself and her administrator, she soon found that she had lost her job. She was informed that she would not be returning to the school for the next academic year. 

Despite her sudden, unexpected termination, she was expected to see out the academic year. She felt betrayed. She had no idea what she had done. According to any and every observation she had suffered, she was proficient as an educator and well on her way to becoming a great teacher. Yet her administrator had a severe issue with her—the best explanation would be a personality conflict. It was this personality conflict that caused her to become hostile towards everyone on the campus. She was never informed of the reasoning for her termination, even when she asked for a direct, straight response when she inquired as to those reasons. It seemed to her that Big Red, now referred to as the Governess, was unable to give such a reason. It was this belief that led her to question the administration of the independent school district. She wrote letters, retained documentation of every grievance she had suffered at the hands of this administrator, and she did everything in her power to retain a career in education.

Despite everything she did, to this day, she is unable to find employment in the education system. For this reason, she has begun to look for employment in other industries that do not require any education. It has not seemed to matter what she does—nothing will ever be enough for this school district—nothing she will ever do will cause them to change their minds. Nothing she ever does will be seen or heard by these small-minded individuals who ruined her dreams, her goals, and her life.

There were no sounds save that of the quiet hum of appliances and the soft chirp of crickets outside. She sat alone in the dark, anxiously awaiting whatever was to happen next. She heard the floorboards shift as a human foot took a soft, hesitant step forward. Her breath caught in her throat, almost making her choke and gag on the sudden halt of her subconscious action. Her hair tickled her nose, and she feared she would sneeze; she didn’t dare make a motion in order to solve such a petty problem. She knew her situation was serious; the intruder mustn’t find her. She waited as the figure slow made its way across the hardwood of her beautiful living room. No shoes were on those feet; only the texture on the bottom of the socks kept the dark shadow upright. Suddenly, even the crickets stopped their singing. She was left alone again in the room, the figure having moved on to another portion of the house. She had to move quickly; her hunter would be circling back soon. She brushed the single strand of hair away from her face and scratched its previous location until the skin on the end of her nose was raw from the attempt. The footsteps receded quickly down the hall, and she decided she would risk moving. Being her house, she knew where her footfalls would not be felt or heard, and she made her way quickly to the kitchen. She began gathering quiet food stuffs and water, knowing her stake out could last the rest of the evening and even into the early morning hours. Her hunter had continued searching for her despite her perfect hiding place. She stilled and listened for a moment, hoping to hear nothing, but she quickly and quietly gathered her goods when she realized the searcher was returning to this portion of the house. Returning to her unknown hideaway, she found a comfortable position and watched and waited. The footsteps were no longer creeping around the house, gaining now a hurried shuffle. Perhaps her hunter had given up, forfeited his reward for her capture. However, she would soon realize the futility of such hope. Hours passed, the meager goods she had managed to carry quietly back were running low, and the soft glow of sunrise drifted in through the large picture window. She would not be safe here much longer; as soon as the light caught the mirror on the opposite wall, she would be visible to anyone with a trained eye. As the footsteps retreated once again, she made to move to a new hiding place, hoping beyond hope she could find one quickly. As she made her escape in the opposite direction of her tracker, she missed her floorboard, and the haunted groan that resulted sent chills up her spine. She froze as she heard the other’s footsteps halt and then resume, this time quickly, almost running, back toward her. She threw herself behind the couch, squeezing the minute amount of her fat between its back and the wall. She held still, keeping her breath in, her heart pounding almost audibly in her chest. The trained hunter halted in the middle of the room, gazing around searching for any sign of where she may have gone. She heard her pulse in her ears, felt the quickening of it in her wrists, and she prayed he would not find her. Suddenly, the couch was flung from its resting place, her hunter grabbed her by the hand and pulled her to her feet. “Ha! I found you!” her brother screamed in her face. “You’re it!”

It was an odd feeling. A sense of fear mingled with hope and anticipation. Maggie had waited for this opportunity; she wanted this job. Right now she lived on cheap vegetables and ramen noddles. Her finances had dug her a hole so deep she no longer saw the light of day. She fought to find the money for every meal. Debt collectors called her relentlessly. She was on the verge of losing her home, her car, and her cellular service. And yet she never gave up hope that a job would present itself. She applied for every position available to her, even if she was not remotely qualified for the position.

She began selling off her possessions. She was now down to the clothes left in her closet, her scarce furniture, and the few things she kept to remain entertained during her long, painful wait. She held onto the hope because that was all she had left. She could ask for help from her parents, but she had already taken so much from them. They helped her with gasoline, food, even cleaning supplies so she could keep the house clean for her family. She couldn’t bring herself to ask for more.

This was where the trouble began. She had no job, no prospects, and far too many unpaid bills and owed debts.

There came a day when she didn’t want any more of his crap. She packed up what little she owned and left in the middle of the night. 

She ran into another man’s arms, but they weren’t warm like the ones she had left. She lived with this for years before she realized what she had done. 

Again, there came a day when she didn’t want any more of his crap, and she packed up what little she owned and left in the middle of the night. This time, she ran into the warm arms she had so quickly left. 

These were the arms she belonged in, forever and always. The only question she had she ignored; the answer would only make her question why she loved him. She didn’t want to lose him again.

Her life became simple, and then it complicated itself. She wanted to better herself, but her previous choices made that impossible, now. She had things she needed to do before her wants became dominant again. She became mainstream, a typical girl, a mother, a housewife.

Where was her real mistake?

His first mistake was loving her in a lie. He said “I love you” without ever knowing what an emotion was. His kisses were not heart-felt, his eyes were void of emotion, and his heart was cold to her embrace. 

He took her in falsities, and he made her believe his intentions were true. 

She left the man she really loved for someone who said he would do better. He played the role of the man she always wanted. He worked hard enough to make them a comfortable living.

Then everything feel apart. He quit his job for the chance at a better one. The bills got harder to pay. Her lifestyle fell drastically, and he refused to touch her. His moments of intimacy were watching television and movies she did not enjoy. His lies came out to her. He said he loved her, but he never did. He did not believe in emotions; his heart was cold as stone. He believed in reason above all things, so there was never a chance he could love her or anyone else. 

She finally left, and the man she betrayed so heartlessly gratefully took her back. He truly loved her. The man she left she no longer considered a man. He tried too hard to escape from the world, like an adolescent. His dreams of being rich were unrealistic; he never stuck to a job. His idea of a life-partner was ridiculous; he could never keep someone he could never have the ability to love.

She finally realized she had made the worst mistake in her life.

The word got around the town the next morning. By noon, everyone knew who she was. She had no secrets here. Suddenly she felt the desire to return home to live with her father again, but she also knew that was impossible. 

Her father had been arrested on charges that never made any sense. When he was cleared of one charge, someone would find others to keep him in jail. She thought he would never get out. When the summer had come to an end, she was taken from his care and placed with her mother: the mother who ran out on her when she was only an infant. 

She had never seen her mother except in pictures and, of course, on TV. Her mother was an actress, and she never had time to come around to see the daughter she abandoned sixteen years ago. Even now, having been put in charge of her daughter, she was absent the vast majority of the time. When she had arrived from her father’s, her mother was not there to welcome her. She had a standing appointment with her hairstylist and would not miss it for anything. When she went to bed that night, her mother was still not home. The papers the next morning, her first morning in her new home, told her that her mother had gone to some rave the night before, getting high and wasted, and had spent the night in jail. Some mother, she thought. Now, as she stumbled through her first day of school in a new town with no friends and with no idea where she was going, her mother was a thousand miles away filming on location somewhere in Texas.

It seemed as though she were living every teenager’s dream; she was free to live how she wanted to, to dress how she wanted to dress, to have parties and have the maids clean up the mess. But she wasn’t happy. She was miserable. She wanted someone to talk to, to laugh with, to shop with, and just to be there. The hired hands around the massive home she now occupied alone were not much for conversation, and they didn’t hang around much. She didn’t really know where they went when she didn’t see them. They were paid by the day, and they were supposed to stay on the property, but she rarely saw any of them. Even the maid was elusive, seeming to disappear when she heard footsteps approaching.

As she walked down the hall on this bright, sunny day in California, in a bright, sunny new school, every eye turned towards her. This was a public school, and the other kids weren’t used to celebrities being there. There were questions in their eyes, wonder in their stares, but she ignored all of them. She knew what they all wanted when they tried to talk to her: their five minutes of fame. They all wanted to be discovered, and they would use her to do it.

She decided to keep to her self. That is, until she met him.

Dear Inconsiderate, Narcissistic, Idiotic, Drug-Addicted Freak,

I don’t appreciate you breaking into my parent’s rental property and touching my things. The guitar you stole, that was a gift to me that I used to express myself when I was an emotionally driven teenager. The jewelry you took was not yours, your mother’s, or your grandmother’s, but they were mine, gifts and self-purchases alike. The dishes you took were given to me after my great-grandmother died, and they cannot EVER be replaced. The mirror you took, however, has the greatest monetary value: I was told that replacing/repairing it would cost me near $1000, and it came with the bedroom suit I got when I was 16. It has extreme sentimental value, and you’re a prick for taking it from someone who actually values it for more than what it will bring me in the heroin I’m sure you’re shooting up your arm right now. If you’re religious, good luck getting to heaven, jerk. Instead, I’ll see you in the deepest circle of hell, and I might just put myself there just to watch you burn. At the rate you’re going, you’ll be there soon, anyway. Turn yourself in and gain some self respect: it’s the only way you’ll get clean, anyway.

Sincerely,

The Desperately Broke and Heart-broken Girl You Robbed

There’s a part of me that is mysterious. It longs to lurk in the shadows. It knows no one and does not want to. It prefers to be always alone, watching others and playing mind games with anyone that wanders too close. Oftentimes, when this side of me is showing, I scare others away. They want no part of the mystery.

There is a part of me that is motherly. It desires to care for everyone and everything. It loves to garden and to cook, clean and mend, wash and play. It watches children play and longs for the day to have its own. People are often annoyed by this side of me. When it is dominant, everyone avoids me for fear of a lecture.

There is a part of me that is friendly. It wants to talk to anyone and everyone. It does not care what topic is thrown around during conversations, but it desperately wants to be a part of them. It makes me throw myself into the middle of discussions, but I’m often not wanted; it still doesn’t care. People avoid this side of me to keep from hearing my unwanted thoughts.

There is a part of me that is shy. It is friends with mysterious, but instead of watching other people and what they do it wants terribly to keep away from them. It does not watch but turns away, afraid of what it might see. It keeps me from saying things that need to be said, and people stay away when it shows up because they think I’m a snob. 

There is a part of me that is creative. It wants to write, paint, sew, cook, and organize. There are so many things that it can do. It makes things and leaves behind a mess, but the finished product is often worth it. People do not like this side of me because they do not want to deal with mess or the projects. They prefer to leave me be.

There is a part of society that just does not understand. It never looks beyond those initial moments when it meets a new person. It never takes the time to get to know anyone because it thinks it knows what is best. What it fails to realize is that good people like me are the best kinds to know, even though it shuns me at every crossroads.

For once, she woke early. The sun was barely up over the horizon, making the day look bleak through her slightly curtained windows. As she slid her legs over the side of the bed and began to stretch her lazy limbs, her alarm began playing her song of choice. She listened for a moment, held in rapture to one of her favorite songs. She slapped her alarm off and climbed lazily out of bed. It was then that she noticed the smell; it was the smell of death, reeking the air of her home. Her child was fine, and her husband lay asleep next to her. This wasn’t the smell of human death; that she knew. 

She hurried out of the room, desperate to find and extinguish the horrid odour. Soon, she found its source: mice. They had been breeding in her home since winter had started. It was now early summer, and she had just been able to afford a means to get rid of them. The poison was in two places in house, and it had been eaten quickly. Already she had replaced it once and was soon to replace it again. 

“Finally,” she thought, “They are beginning to die. Now I won’t have to hide the food in the fridge.” 

She was running low on room for food, and the family was beginning to tire of the meager helpings that could be found of vegetables and fruit. Occasionally there was meat, but oftentimes that was frozen. It was difficult to cook anything on the mouse-infested stove or in the mouse-nested oven, so they had been surviving on precooked meals, raw veggies and fruit, or TV dinners. Even she was starting to tire of this. 

Before her child woke, she hurriedly found each dead mouse and disposed of them. Hopefully no one else would have to smell death today. Her count was two dead, meaning the house still held at least three live mice. She hoped, as the poison was not working properly and covering the smell of decaying mouse, that none of them would die in the walls. 

Eventually, she was able to settle down with a cup of coffee, some classic rock music, and her laptop. She checked on the rest of her family and her friends on her favourite social network, told everyone what had awaited her this morning, and waited for her precious son to wake up. She wanted to make him breakfast, but the mice made that impossible for now. He would have to live with fruit or pop tarts once again this morning. 

Her thoughts lingered on this, musing upon different possibilities as to what she could do to rid her home of the pesky rodents. As always, she came up empty. There was nothing else she could do for now. She simply had to wait.

Waiting was not a game she appreciated playing.