ALL FOR THE TITLE OF DANCE MOM- Fiction

 ALL FOR THE TITLE OF DANCE MOM

 

“She failed, didn’t she?” I said to the judge, unable to refrain. I had a seat behind Mr. Christianson, the devil of judging. His reputation for impossible standards had blemished his name in the dance community. My daughter Brielle had never danced for this crusty, hard-nosed judge who didn’t belong in little girl dancing competitions. Who had thought he deserved a spot on the panel baffled me. I sat on the very edge of my seat and stretched as far as I could so he could hear me. They had purposely kept an empty row of seats behind the judges to protect them from mothers like me.

“I hope you understand that if her dance shoes hadn’t been stolen, she would have delivered a perfect dance,” I said. That might have been the fifth or sixth thing I had said to him.

Mr. Christianson swung around so quickly; I am surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash.

“If you do not silence yourself, I will disqualify your dancer.”

I threw myself back so hard into the seat that something in my back cracked. I had spent the last four years getting Brielle ready for this competition. She had practiced this routine to flawless perfection, but someone had stolen her shoes two hours before her performance. She had to perform in her old dance shoes, which was the only reason she failed. I flexed my fists open and closed.

Cathy took me onto the empty stage, where a million little girls had just danced and brought pride to their mothers—pride that never lasted. For as soon as they won this competition or lost it, their mothers were riding them for the next competition.

“Do you want a hug?”

“Of course not!” I snapped at Cathy as my head betrayed me and bobbed up and down. She hugged me, bringing the collective spirit of all dance moms upon me. We were catty bitches, honestly. There to support one another, and then in an instant, plunging a knife into the other’s back-Sometimes within the exact second. As Cathy pulled away from the hug, I ran my hand along my back to check if she had left a knife. She handed me Brielle’s custom-sewn bag with tights, makeup, and clips in it. That bag cost almost three hundred dollars because one of the uppity-up moms said the girls needed matching bags.

“If you want the other dancers to take us seriously, then they need high-quality bags that match.” She had pushed for a Grift Dance 33” Tower bag. I fought against the matching bags altogether. Collectively, we moms settled for a Mosiso bag, which price only increased with the embroidering. I would be draining another week of pay from my husband for the damn bag. Little Mrs. Uppity sulked for three months that she had to settle for a Mosiso, and I fumed for those months that we had to have it at all.

Cathy asked if she could do anything more for me behind the stage curtains as the remaining voices in the building trailed away. “Do you have money for the fare,” she asked, knowing that all the girls had gone to Georgie’s house to celebrate their loss, and she had been Brielle and my ride. I would not attend the party as planned, because the judge had kicked me out of the auditorium and knocked off points from the Rhoad Island Rhythmic Rush—Brielle’s dance team.

Like I want to celebrate their loss, anyway. If I had my way, they would be practicing more and not celebrating.

I sat behind the glass doors, watching for my taxi to arrive. Did I make an ideal dance mom? Of course, I did, but I couldn’t celebrate mediocrity, and being uninvited to the party, I wouldn’t have to.

How will the ladies treat me in dance class on Monday? I had lost their team; our team, precious points.

I shuddered at the thought of seeing them the following practices, as they would scoot away from me as I entered the studio, huddled together in a corner to gossip about me. Hell, they would spend the night tarnishing my name.

When I walked into the apartment and saw Liam’s jacket in the space behind the door, I wondered if it had been worth it.

“I can’t chase behind you two every day, begging for the attention of my wife and daughter,” Liam had said in his ultimatum monologue. “Everything in our lives is about that blasted dance competition. It is ridiculous. Just let Brielle be a girl. Just be a normal housewife.”

“Housewife!” I had screamed. “How dare you use that antiquated term for me.” Had dance mom upped my status? “I can’t believe you want to kill Brielle’s dream, her future.”

“Her future as what? A stripper? Most kids don’t carry on with their childhood hobbies past high school. And is this really Brielle’s dream to dance competitively, or yours? We can put her in a regular dance class that doesn’t consume and upset our family life.” I had thrown my arms over my chest and turned my back to my husband of sixteen years. And in response, he turned his back to us.

I picked up his coat and let out a blood-curling scream as I chucked it across the empty apartment. I could hear the sound of each other’s voice floating around, as if ghosts occupied the space. I hadn’t always thought Liam was the best husband or that we made a great couple, but he was the one whom I had trusted with my secrets and life for the last sixteen years. Many people thought we were an ideal couple. It must have been a shock when he moved out.

And for what?

Dance competition.

In the dance bag, I pulled out slightly damp tights, a sequence dress, clips, and a few other things. That dress had cost a hundred and eighty dollars. Just one of three outfits for this last competition. With Liam gone, who would now pay for the ridiculous dance outfits? My fingers rubbed at a red spot on the dress. There was blood on the outfit. Had one of the sequins snagged Brielle’s skin? I put her bag in her bedroom, a room that tripled as an office and storage unit. My fingers clutched the ridiculous Mosiso bag. We didn’t have the money for this exuberant hobby of Brielle’s—Of mine. We could hardly afford a decent place. I paid cash for everything for dance. But that only meant that the rest of our life we put on credit.

Can’t have the other moms thinking that we can’t afford competition class.

*

When I saw their picture on Facebook, I scrolled to read his status.

—In a relationship.

That had happened fast. What had it been? Three months. The lady draped her arm over Brielle’s chest, holding her close as if she were the mom—as if the three of them were the perfect family.

If I hadn’t embarrassed Brielle at her competition, would she have moved in with her dad and quit dance entirely?

I doubted it.

“I was only doing it for Mom,” she made the wild accusations. “I hate dance.”

I slammed the laptop closed.

Brielle was in dance because she loved it! She had done it for herself, not for me.

I think Liam had brainwashed her once she moved in with him to quit.

Of course, he had.

She loved to dance.

Didn’t she?

Or had it been me who had brainwashed it?—Forcing her to be the perfect dance child I never got to be.

I constructed another box and filled it with the things from Brielle’s room that she had left behind. Most I would throw, but some I would keep. I didn’t have much room in the studio apartment I would be moving into. It would take two jobs to afford it.

I picked up the Mosiso bag and threw it out the balcony window. Let them report me. I am moving out anyway.

That bag represented the end of two relationships.

Mine and Liam's.

Mine and Brielle’s.

—All for the title of Dance Mom.

 

 ____________________________________________

All For the Title of Dance Mom

by Stephanie Daich

 

JUST TO MAKE OTHERS LAUGH -Poetry

 JUST TO MAKE OTHERS LAUGH

It's eight am on a Monday.

The cruel children enter the school.

You, the bully, sit next to Allison.

Making fun of her, being incredibly cruel.

You say, Girl, can you be any uglier?

Could you have at least brushed your hair?

While you poke fun at her,

The others laugh and stare.

Dee diddly-am

Dee diddly-slam

Throw down your insults just to make others laugh.

Destroy another's worth,

Because, inside, you are hurting too.

Destroy another's worth,

To mask the pain in you.

Now Allison has lost all her friends,

Because of the stinging lies you spread,

It will take her years to move past the pain,

Of the toxic message you put in her head.

If only you could see the damage you cause,

If only you could walk in Allison's shoes.

Perhaps you would lift her out of her pain,

Perhaps kindness you would choose.

Dee diddly-am

Dee diddly-slam

Throw down your insults just to make others laugh.

Destroy another's worth,

Because, inside, you are hurting too.

Destroy another's worth,

To mask the pain in you.

__________________________________________

Just to Make Others Laugh

by Stephanie Daich

ILLUMINATED -Fiction

Illuminated

Everything I touch dies.

It didn't use to be like this.

I lived averagely with a carbon footprint cleaner than most Brits.

"Anslie, where are you headed today?" Mom asked as I loaded my hiking pack with supplies.

"Hadrian's Wall Path," I replied, stuffing the last of my food into my pack. I lifted the bag and the weight dragged on my arms. It seemed heavier than usual. I needed to keep the weight to around three stones.

THUMP. I dropped the hefty bag and then opened it, displacing my careful organization. I guess I could do without the ax. I tossed it aside. I would need to take more weight out than that. My hike would last several days, making the pack feel even heavier than it already did. Where was the extra sweater I had packed? I guess I could do without it.

Mom watched and rubbed her forehead. "I hate that you do these adventures on your own. You are barmy. What if something happened to you? How would we even know you need help?"

My hands felt the soft sweater and yanked it out. I had a baselining and hoped it would keep me warm. I rearranged my bag. ZIP. I closed it. The pack still pulled at my arms as I lifted it up. Yup, still heavy. Oh well, it will have to do. I couldn't part with anything else.

Mom hovered over me, and my muscles constricted. "I'll be fine." My tone came out more nark than I had meant.

She circled me, clicking her tongue. "That pack seems as big as you."

Couldn't she appreciate my tenacity? I could be dim and lounge on her couch all day without ambition.

Something sharp poked through the pack into my back. I can't hike with that shoving into my shoulder blades. Great, I have to open it again.

THUMP. I dropped my bag and once again opened it. I fished around until I found the pan that had pierced into me. I moved it to the other side of the bag and put my baselining in its place. I tried the pack on again, and this time it felt better, still heavy, though.

"What if someone tries to hurt you?"

"Good thing I know Jiu-Jitsu." My shoulders almost sang in relief as I removed the pack and set it on the couch. Stealthily, I went behind Mom and put her in a rear-naked choke. "I'll choke out any fool that messes with me." Mom's nails scraped at my arm. I let her go without putting on real pressure.

Cough. Mom rubbed her neck. "What about wild animals?"

I faced her. "Mom, seriously, stop waffling. I will be alright."

And I was. As I traveled Hadrian's Wall Path, the sense of adventure held promise for a phenomenal hike. I was a ledge. My spirit escaped my tense body, bonding with nature as I walked along the Antonine Wall. Various shades of green covered the rolling hills. I sighed, releasing months of suppressed tension. I needed more nature in my life. While others relied on drugs to find their Zen, my high came from hikes. Only at night did the chilly air penetrate my clothes, leaving me wishing I hadn't removed my sweater. I shivered in my bag, imagining one day leaving it all behind to spend the rest of my life hiking.

My Hadrian expedition ended too quickly, and sadly, I returned to work to save money for my next journey. I hated how brick and mortar suppressed my liveliness and trapped me in conformity. Seven agonizing months dragged on until I returned to God and country along the peninsula in Caithness, on the north coast of Scotland.

Dunnet Head took my breath away!

I could taste the salt as I took in deep breaths of the sea air. It seemed pure and cleansing. The humidity clung to my skin, leaving water droplets on my arm and facial hairs.

Why did I have to work? I could spend the rest of my life in nature.

As I explored the coastal clifftop, kittiwakes floated effortlessly in the breeze, chirping as if to say hello. The wind swept my hair into my eyes. I used the elastic from my wrist and tied the rogue hair back. Warmth from the sun radiated across my skin. It seemed extra warm for being so north.

I struggled to remove my bulky pack, its strap catching on my arm. It left my back soaking wet from sweat. Free from the weight, I felt like the wind would blow me off the cliff's edge. I almost let it, wanting to soar like the birds. I sat over the precipice and let my legs dangle above the vast Atlantic Ocean, watching the gulls disappear. Far below, the waves crashed against the rocks.

Across the Pentland Firth, I could barely see the Isle of Stroma. I would have loved to explore the cliffs and see Castle Mestag and the old Norsk presence now in ruins. My hands tingled when I saw two porpoises swimming below me. Their triangle dorsal fin sliced through the Atlantic. Maybe I could jump off the cliff, soar down to the porpoise, and ride them to the isle. -If only.

GROWL. My stomach pulled me away from meditating. I found a mylar packet of tuna in my bag and opened it. The pungent odor smelt much like the place. -Fishy. When was the last time I had eaten anything? My dirty fingers scooped out wet, flaky fish, and I shoved them in my mouth. Within seconds I had finished the tuna. I licked the smooth wrapper, still hungry for more. That morsel of protein hadn't done anything to stop my appetite, in fact, my stomach clenched in pain, begging for more. I had to be careful with how I rationed my food. But I didn't care because I sat in one of the most serene places I had ever experienced. I would celebrate it with food. I pulled out a bag of dehydrated apricots and munched on them, loving the chewy sensation as their sweetness exploded in my mouth. This is living! I leaned against my pack and closed my eyes.

A large rumbling shook the cliff, and I quickly scooted away from the edge. A few pebbles tumbled down into the ocean, swallowed by the surf. Had anyone else felt that? I searched the ridgeline, but I saw no one. Had there just been an earthquake?

A loud roaring vibrated through my body as if a jet plane flew directly over me. I looked up and frightfully stumbled next to the edge. My heart pounded against my chest so hard I saw it ripple under my shirt.

A massive ball of light headed toward me. I scooted backward on my butt, too afraid to stand. The light's intensity forced my eyes closed, almost boiling them in their sockets. My eyelids seemed like a lousy shield to the irradiating furnace I felt rumbling closer to me. KABOOM! The light smacked into me. Everything burned, sizzling my skin. Instantly, the brightness that penetrated my eyelids stopped. I opened them. Everything had returned to normal, except my glowing yellow skin. It looked as if the flames lapped at every centimeter of me. I rolled away from the cliff's edge, trying to extinguish the fire. I bathed in the dirt until I realized I had no fire on me. Under a layer of dust, my skin still illuminated light as if I was a log in a firepit. I ran my hand over my quivering skin. It didn't feel particularly hot.

What had just happened? When the fireball hit me, if that's what it was, it felt as if the sun had torched my entire body, yet nothing appeared burnt. What should I do? Absentmindedly, I ran my hand along pink flowers on the heather shrub. After sitting in a stupor for almost two hours, I ate another pack of tuna. The glow from my skin had dissipated but still shone like a glow stick.

I stood up and noticed the entirety of the heather where I had sat had burnt to a crisp. Wait, hadn't there just been flowers?

The experience disrupted my tranquility, and with nothing left to do, I explored the lighthouse and military remains.

I walked about 12 kilometers toward Castletown and pitched my tent outside of the village. I tried to sleep, but it felt like I had a methenamine IV pump pulsing energy through my core. I tossed around and eventually turned to journaling. I didn't need my lantern, for my skin provided a low glow in the tent.

Morning brought the sounds of MOO! GRUNT. SHUFFLE. A considerable amount of activity happened outside. Light trickled into the tent from the rising sun. I unzipped the opening and found myself surrounded by a herd of Scottish Highland Cattle. I pinched my nose to their musky odor. The burnt orange bovine grazed way too close. I zipped myself back into the tent, not sure what to do. Maybe I'll wait it out. They have to leave sometime. But they didn't. After several hours, it became clear those little woolly mammoths weren't going anywhere. Cautiously I climbed out and packed up my gear, with my nerves on high alert. The coos casually watched me, for the most part, uninterested in the glowing human. It wouldn't take much for them to drive their thick horns into my abdomen.

With Everything strapped to my back, I continued to Castletown and walked by a group of kids. They stopped talking and stared at me.

"Look," a kid said, pointing to me. "It is Lugh-Mighty God of Light."

"Don't hurt us," another said.

The kids grabbed each other's hands, then ran toward the village.

I couldn't go into the village glowing. I dropped my pack and pulled out my jacket to hide my luminating arms. I wrapped a scarf around my face, leaving a small opening for my eyes. The heat overcame me, but I couldn't be seen as a radiated twit. I had planned to spend a few days in Castletown but thought better of it.

I tried to avoid areas of the population as I continued hiking. As I walked late into the evening, my mind tried to make sense of everything, when I heard clumping. I looked up in time to see a ravage black and white goat charging forward, with its curved horns aimed right at me.

The blunt impact propelled me onto my back, cushioned by the hiking pack. The goat backed up and came at me again as its horns smashed into my side, causing ricocheting pain. As my adrenalin spiked, I grabbed the goat's horns and shook its head back and forth. Its powerful body struggled for freedom. What do I do? If I let him go, he would continue ramming me. As he struggled, the freakiest thing happened. His horns turned black, and the darkness spread to his head, neck, and entire body. Within minutes, he looked as if he had been roasted on a spit. Life exited him, and he dropped dead. I released his horns and stumbled to my knees. My breath came out in quickened bursts. Had the goat been possessed? They use goats in satanic rituals. My mouth became the Dungeness Desert as my muscles tightened.

I stood up and awkwardly ran, my pack slowing my pace. I could smell the sweet aroma of cooked goat. I stopped and looked back at it; afraid its zombie body would chase me. It remained where it had died. My stomach growled, reminding me I had only eaten grub for the last two weeks. I had never tried goat, but I knew that people ate it.

"Are you kidding yourself? If you eat that demonic goat, you will surely suffer horrific food poisoning," my shoulder angel warned.

"Yeah, you are right."

I turned my back to the goat, but the smell lured me in. It smelled much like broiled mutton, which I adored. I don't know why the goat died, but it shouldn't die in vain.

I found my knife and worked out a chunk of juicy flesh. I had struggled more than I thought I would as I tore through its hide. The tender meat almost melted in my mouth. I couldn't control my ravenous appetite and consumed probably a kilogram of savory delight.

With a painfully full stomach, I stretched in the long grass and took a kip.

A deep voice woke me. "What do we got here?"

I looked up at a large man towering above me. My heart raced.

"It's just a dead goat," I replied. "It tried to kill me."

The man didn't look at the goat, staring down at me. His eyes conveyed something wicked, foul.

"What's a cute lass doing out here by herself."

I had to think quickly. "I am not alone. My dad is just over there, somewhere. So, you can, you can just bugger off." I pointed behind me. I didn't trick him. He knew I was alone. I looked to the ground for my knife. It was stuck in the side of the goat.

The man straddled me and rubbed my cheek. My blood set to concrete, my body too stiff to move. His hot, putrid lips planted on mine. They felt like acid. "My little trollop," he cooed. "You must be an angel the way you glow. An angel sent to rescue me." He kissed me again, bringing his bowski body closer to mine.

What do I do? What do I do? My mind fog cleared. I had been secretly waiting for a day like this. For the past five years, I had studied Jiu-Jitsu and was a purple belt. No one ever wants to be in a situation where they have to use it to defend their life, yet we Jiu-Jitsu competitors always fantasize that one day we will use it to save our life. The man was probably double my weight, but that didn't matter. As long as he wasn’t a brown belt in Jiu-Jitsu, I knew I could save myself.

I framed his body, shrimped out, and then in one swooping motion, I stuffed his right arm between us, pulled his left arm to my side, and wrapped my legs around his head. I pulled his body into me as my thighs compressed around his neck. Within seconds I choked him out.

I had always wondered what I would do in a situation like this. Would I choke my assailant to unconsciousness and then flee, or would I kill the SOB? A rapist didn't deserve mercy. As I continued to apply pressure and debate ending the rapist's life, the decision was removed from me. Just like the goat, blackness moved across the man. And probably quicker than I could kill him, his whole body blackened, and he died.

I pushed his incinerated body off mine and scooted away. The aromatic smell of grilled meat hit me, smelling like a Sunday BBQ. I rolled onto my knees and violently puked.

I wrapped my arms around my knees and sobbed. I had just killed a man. I mean, I think I had killed him. I hadn't ended his life by strangulation, but somehow, just like the goat, I had turned him into a burnt corpse. It gutted me. I wiped the leftover smear of puke from my chin. I looked around and noticed everywhere I had sat appeared as if a ground fire had occurred.

When my fit of hysteria ended, I gathered my gear and walked back to Castletown. My adventure had ended. I needed Mom. I would secure a passage home.

All the events since the sunburst played through my head. The glowing skin, the burnt heather, the incinerated goat, and the charred man. Was I infused with radiation that killed any living thing that touched me? I tested the grass and watched it blacken, wither, and die under my touch. I experimented on plants, trees, and a field mouse. All died.

I am a freak!

I couldn't return home. What if Mom touched me? She would touch me. I would try to avoid it, but eventually, it would happen, and mom would burn to crisp like the rapist.

I could never be around people again. So, in a way, I guess I got what I always wanted. I became a skint vagabond, leaving brick and mortar to wander the highlands of Scottland forever.

 

 ________________________________________

 Illuminated

by Stephanie Daich

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE DOOM OF THE INVISIBLE CLOAK -Flash Fiction

THE DOOM OF THE INVISIBLE CLOAK 

“What’s the point of turning invisible if you smell like a rotten goat’s carcass while wearing it? And only for 29 seconds? Who designed the cloak, a demented troll?”

“One. Trolls don’t exist. Two. Stop complaining. I’ll take your cloak if you don’t want it. You can freaking turn invisible!” My best friend Sam said.

“Yeah, but as soon as I walk into a room, people know I’m there. They start looking around for the cause of the stench. And besides, 29 seconds, that gives me squat on time.”

“That is why I’ll help you. I’ll be your distraction. I’ll make a huge scene; you will put the cloak on and quickly make your heist.”

“Who says I want to be a criminal?”

“Bruh, what’s the point of having an invisible cloak if you don’t use it to your advantage?”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought of it.” I brush the hair out of my eyes. “I just think I might feel guilty.”

“You gotta push that aside. Where do you think the cloak came from anyway?”

“I told you, I found it in my dryer at the laundry mat. I was so mad when I pulled it out. It had made all my clothes smell like a pig farm. But then when I was—"

“No idiot! I mean, did it used to belong to a wizard? Like seriously, these things don’t exist.”

My bedroom door opened, and my roommate came in. “Yo, Braxton, you still going to give me that ride? I’m late for work.”

“I am coming along,” Sam said after Braxton left. “We are going to put that cloak to use.”

“I don’t know.”

As we pulled up to the police station, my roommate coughed. “Listen, I don’t want to be ungrateful for this ride, but your car smells like the sewer.”

I yanked on my shirt’s collar, then shrugged. I had the cloak stuffed in a bag in the trunk, but its smell still escaped.

Sam watched my roommate walk into the police station. “Let’s rob a bank.”

“There is no way that it will work. I only stay invisible for 29 seconds.”

“Bruh, I think a wizard with a demented sense of humor designed that cloak.”

“No doubt.”

Sam looked around. “How about Doug’s Deli across the street? I’ll order a sandwich. You’ll stand a couple of people behind me. When they open the till for the customer directly in front of you, I will create a scene. You throw on the cloak. Botta-Bing-Botta-Boo. Grab the money, and we scram.”

I pulled at my collar again. “I don’t know if I can steal.”

“Fine, you make the scene, and I steal the money.”

I imagined myself screaming and throwing a fit. There was no way I could do that. “Fine, I’ll grab the money.”

I walked into the deli a few minutes after Sam. The smell of warm bread greeted me, only to have me taint the air.

“Oh my gosh, what is that smell?”

Cough. Cough. Cough.

All eyes were on me. So much for conspicuous.

I pulled on my collar as the man in front of me ordered. Can I go through with this?

Ding. The till opened.

“I found the source of the smell,” Sam yelled. Everyone turned and looked at him. “There is a rotten rat in my sandwich.”

Everyone murmured, and a few gathered around Sam. “I am calling my lawyer. I am calling the police. How could you serve rotten rat!”

I became lost in his theatrics when I noticed his glare at me. Oh, yeah, that is my cue.

The man in front of me had his hand outstretched, still holding a twenty-dollar bill. The employee didn’t even notice it, as his eyes were fixed on Sam. I pulled the cloak out of my bag and slipped it on. The smell intensified.

One, two, three, four. I put my hand in the till and grabbed all the bills. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. I did it! I had gotten the money unnoticed.

I ran toward the exit. Just as I reached the door, Sam turned into me, not knowing I was there. I tripped and sprawled across the checkered linoleum. My wad of money flew everywhere, and my twenty-nine seconds ended. Suddenly, to the eyes of everyone, I appeared with a grungy cloak halfway draped over me, covered in money.

“I’ve been robbed.” The employee yelled.

“You can keep your rat sandwich,” Sam said as he tossed the sandwich across the deli and ducked out the door.

The customers surrounded me. Some collected the money for the employee, and others performed a citizen’s arrest on me. It didn’t take but seconds for the police to arrive since their station was across the road. We hadn’t planned the heist well at all.

“What’s going on?” My roommate said, decked in his police uniform.

“This man robbed us.”

“Braxton?”

My roommate shook his head. “If you were low on rent, all you had to do is tell me.” He shook his head. “Sorry to do this,” he said, turning me around and cuffing me.

As I was escorted out of the Deli, I saw a teen girl pick up the cloak. Why would she touch something so stinky? I watched her carry it to the garbage when the cloak and her hands disappeared. She moved the cloak around her body, and a huge smile filled her face when she realized what she had.

My roommate took me across the street and booked me into jail. I contemplated Sam’s betrayal and the humility of having my roommate arrest me. And I thought about the girl with her newly found treasure.

Perhaps she will be wiser with how she uses the invisible cloak.

____________________________________________________________________

The Doom of the Invisible Cloak

by Stephanie Daich

RED-NECK-WEDDING -Fiction

 RED-NECK-WEDDING 

What have I done?

Smashed beer cans littered around my feet, with beer sticking to my ankles. Mud stained the bottom of my heirloom wedding dress.

My wedding should have been nothing like the red-neck get-together I just had. Could that display of animal behavior even be called a wedding? 

I had spent my life dreaming about my ideal wedding, my mom prepping me when I was just a toddler. She had always planned my reception to be at the Topping Rose House. 

I wiped the sweat dripping down my neck as I looked at the mismatch of folding and camp chairs strewed about. This weed-infested lawn seemed like the best spot for the priest to marry us the day before. My throat still hurt from screaming when the chair brawl broke out. My new husband Jim and his father and stepfather started the fight. Within a blink, half the wedding party joined in. I thought only Hollywood created that type of savagery. I guess not. I couldn't wait to spend the holidays with these people.

I had no idea where my husband Jim was. That morning, I wandered around the trailer houses, field, and yard, searching. There wasn't a lack of passed-out faces to scan. I never did find "the love of my life."

"Shayla, my brother might-a run off with his ex-girlfriend Buffy Joe. I saw her here last night," Jim's sister Kelly said, laughing through a mouth of rotten teeth. As I wiped her spit off my face, I had two questions. Why was that funny? And why were all her teeth rotten?

I looked at the bread-tie Jim had wrapped around my finger for a wedding ring. My sister wore a 100,000 dollar engagement ring from her husband. When my brother-in-law slipped on the wedding band, the ring rose $40,000 more in value. They had a lovely wedding at the Topping Rose House.

My red-neck wedding, in truth, was my mom's fault. I had only brought Jim home to grab my swimsuit. He was a tour guide for the canoe trip I was about to take. 

Jim had called to cancel the canoe trip because his truck had broken down. Sophie, my childhood friend from summer camp, was visiting from Spain, and I had promised her a canoe expedition. It wasn't my thing, but Sophie wanted it.

When Jim had texted to cancel, I realized I was only five minutes from where he was stranded. I didn't think it a big deal to pick him up so we could still canoe.

As my mom saw that red-neck in our foyer, she abandoned all her social graces. "You need to leave now, young man. There is no place for you here."

It delighted me that my mom thought Jim was my date. I decided to have fun with this.

I put my arm around Jim's waist. "Mom, don't talk to my boyfriend like that." I resisted the urge to gag as his stale meat smell overpowered me. Jim played right along, and he slipped his arm around my waist. I tensed up. His greasy head leaned against mine—his breath smelt like an ashtray.

"What are you doing, Shayla? No, no, no, no, no!" My mom spat out with her hands on her hips.

"Mom, I am twenty-five. It's about time I did things my way. I love Jim, and you can't stop me from dating him." I had to hold in my laughter. I had found a button on my mom, and I loved pushing it. Her reaction bordered epic.

"I love your daughter, Mam." Jim played right along.

I was only doing this to trick my mom, but when I watched her facial muscles tighten and the vein pop out of her neck, exhilaration filled me. In my whole life, I had never rallied my mom up. I was the obedient daughter that let her control my life. I didn't even choose what I would eat during the day. A rush of excitement moved me. And like that, Jim became my boyfriend.

I had never dated anyone as fun as Jim.

The majority of stuffy dates I had gone on with other guys consisted of dinner and a movie. I only watched a movie once with Jim, and he projected it on a sheet in his backyard. I think his whole neighborhood joined us. We sat under the stars while bats circled our heads. The dark sky enveloped me in wonder.

We never ate at a restaurant, although we ate at lots of bars or truck-stops. I had never been to a bar before. Jim seemed to know everyone who came in there. Jim had a genuine truth to his friendships with others, which I had never felt in my upper-crust society. Everyone in my circle of friends and acquaintances was fake. Even my mom. No, especially my mom.

Jim and I had other dates, like truck-pulls and fishing. I still haven't decided if I like to fish or not. And then, of course, every other day, we had BBQs with greasy hot dogs and burgers. And beer. Beer in bottles. Beer in cans. BEER!

I don't like beer, with its yeasty flavor, but Jim and his clan of red-necks sure did. Beer seemed to be the center of all activity. 

Jim brought a new dimension of fun and adventure into my life. I loved the ease everyone had when they gathered, and I admired the friendship Jim had with his parents. Jim's parents seemed to accept him for who he was. They spent their time enjoying each other's company instead of their time criticizing and trying to change Jim, as my parents did with me.

I never fell in love with Jim. I fell in love with how much my dating him upset my mom. For once, I felt like my mom was my marionette on a string, instead of me as hers.

I ended up in the compound of trailer homes as my wedding venue when my mom canceled my Paris trip. My mom and I had plans to go to France for shopping, just her and me. But, when I refused to break up with Jim, she revoked our trip.

The next day, when Jim proposed to me at the corner gas station, I said yes to spite my mom. Later, as I sat on Jim's family's five-acre property, surrounded by passed-out guests and trash, I realized how dumb it was to marry Jim to get back at my mom.

Our wedding had been complete with something they called pig-in-the-mud-wrestling. Some of the guests actually climbed in a giant mud pit and wrestled with pigs! It astounded me when Jim's mom gripped my hand and dragged me toward the mud.

I tried to shake her off. "Starla, I am in my wedding dress." My dress, which cost more than the whole wedding must-have, I inherited from my grandma. It was a lacy vintage assemble. Grandma might haunt me for life if she watched me wear it to this wedding.

"That is what would make it so awesome," Starla said with a snort and kept dragging me closer.

"Starla, stop!" Had I just yelled at my mother-in-law?

Starla stared at me, then released my wrist. "Party-pooper."

Did she honestly call me a party pooper at my wedding? 

I looked around the property and wondered where she was now. Was she one of the passed-out bodies?

I stood up from the pile of beer cans. 

Maaa. A goat rummaged around the garbage. Even though I had dodged pig-wresting in my wedding dress, mud had managed to soak the lace. It sickened me to think I had soiled grandma's dress. I stood and walked past the goat. It snatched a bite of my train and wouldn't let go.

"Give me that, you vermin." I grabbed a beer bottle and hit the top of the goat's head with it. The goat released my dress then displayed its horns.

"Watch out. It's going to buck you," I heard one of Jim's cousins say, one of the few people not passed out.

I grabbed a folding chair and shielded that horrible goat from me as its head rammed the chair a couple of times. With each buck, I stumbled backward.  

"Help me," I screamed. The cousin finally led the goat away, but not before he took a video of my plight on his phone.

It took a minute to calm from the goat's vicious attack. Heavy breaths filled me as my shaky hand steadied myself on the make-shift alter we were married over. The humidity of the morning drenched me in sweat. My hand rubbed the rough wood on the altar. Who would have thought I would be married over a barrel? Surprisingly, the wedding certificate still laid on it. I picked it up. Our legal signatures etched in red ink. I am not sure red is a legal color for signing documents.  

Vrrrrr. The sound of Bobby's monster truck roared to life. Bobby had disappeared last night; otherwise, that monster truck was supposed to be our limo. Beer cans tied with twine dangled from the bumper. Obscene drawings adorned the window from those who had decorated our wedding "carriage". Bobby should have chauffeured us to the Best Western for our wedding night.

Beep. Bobby blared the loud horn, which jerked my heart, and I jumped. Out of one of the trailers, Jim and Buffalo-Joe came running out, hand in hand. They laughed as they climbed up the enormous tires into the limo. 

Rrrrrr. Bobby revved the engine, then peeled out. Mud splattered the cars as the monster truck disappeared into the sunrise. The loyal chauffeur drove the "happy couple" away.

A heavy lump filled my chest. I think I just got abandoned on my wedding day. Well, I guess it was the day after my wedding day. But, either way, my husband left me. I looked at our wedding certificate and tightened my grip. I was legally bound to that cheating-lowlife.

"Ain't you going to go after 'em?" Kelly said, walking towards me. She took a swig of beer from a bottle. I didn't know what time it was, but it was still early in the morning. 

"Um, no. He left me."

Kelly leaned her head back and took a giant chug. Beer dribbled out of the side of her mouth. 

"Ahh," she said. Brrrp.

Gross. I dropped my eyes to the certificate, with my name Shayla etched for time.

"Don't be glum, sis. We'll find you another man."

"Twenty-five and divorced. Wow, that sounds amazing." I had really jacked up my prospects and future.

"Ah, no worries. Ma was on her third marriage at twenty-five." Kelly dropped her level and searched the beer cans. She picked one up and finished the stale beer in it. I shuddered at the sight.

Wonderful.

"Maybe I can get an annulment," I said. "We didn't even have a wedding night."

"You're fine. We printed that there certificate on the computer. Did you go to the courthouse and file for a wedding before the wedding?" Kelly picked up and dropped more bottles and cans.

"No. Are you supposed to do that?"

"Yes, something like that. You go and pay for a certificate. Jim went there, but it was like forty dollars or something. When he complained that was good beer money, I told him I could just print him up a certificate. And here it is," she said, touching the marriage certificate. Her gaping mouth turned to a large smile, obviously proud of her forgery. "I did a good job. Looks legit, doesn't it?"

I stared at the certificate. I didn't know what an actual marriage certificate was supposed to look like.

"So my marriage isn't legal?"

Kelly took another long swig of beer. "Nope."

"But, a priest married us."

She wiped her mouth on her bare arm. "So?"

I stared at the certificate. I looked around the compound with its five trailer houses; One for Jim, one for his mom and step-dad, one for Kelly, and two for storage. I thought about my family's three mansions and two summer cottages scattered around the country. 

I didn't want to live here on this junky compound. I did like my life with all the wealth. But, on the other hand, I loved stepping into a new way of life. Jim's people knew how to have fun. They genuinely cared about each other. I didn't want to walk away from that.

"I guess you are not my sister anymore," I said. I didn't care that Jim ran off with another woman. Actually, I was glad he did. But, it hurt to leave a group of people who engaged in life. How could I return to the rigid social rules that had defined me?

"I might not be your sister, but I'll always be your friend," Kelly said, standing up. She put her arm over my shoulders, and I felt her kindness.

A couple of pigs headed toward us.

I looked at the wedding certificate. I might not be legally married to Jim, but my mom won't know that. I put the certificate on the alter for the moment.

I looked at my soiled dress. I watched the pigs move closer, then said, "Hey Kelly, I have an idea. Let's do a little pig-in-the-mud-wrestling."

My new best friend grabbed my hand and said, "Yee-haw! That's what I am talking about."

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Redneck Wedding

by Stephanie Daich

SATURDAY MORNING -Memoir

 

SATURDAY MORNING -Memoir 

Saturday morning, before the weekday alarm usually goes off, we magically wake to watch morning cartoons. Not once during the school week do we possess the skill of self-awaking, and neither do we for Sunday morning church. But on Saturday, the internal clock rings so we can watch our cartoons.

Bowls of cereal surround us, bells, whistles, and silly sounds. Duck Tales, Scooby Doo, and Smurfs, just to name some classics. Blankets everywhere, roll in the pillows. Milk spilled on pajamas and Mom’s carpet. Hide the spot, don’t let Mom know.

Fights over the remote, crying, tears. A punch to the arm. Bigger brother always wins. Desire and lust fill us as we watch toy commercial after commercial making us despise our toys and wish for new ones. Eat another bowl of soggy cereal to make up for the happy meal we do not have.

Just one more, bargain with mom, then I’ll do my chores. Watch two more cartoons before Mom shuts the TV off and stashes the remote high on the shelf. Rush to scrub the toilets, skip the sink and tub. Sprawl back in front of the TV, just to have it turned off and dragged back to do the bathrooms right.

Soon, the cartoons are replaced by dull, dragged-out golf tournaments. And yet, we do not leave—not until Mom stashes the remote for the fifth time of the day.

The crunch of Velcro straps, pull up the one-piece jumper. Armbands, sweatbands, and three layers of socks. Into the garage to find a flat on the bike. Pump. Pump. Pump. And we are off to spend the day roaming the neighborhood on our bikes, explorers searching for buried treasure and embracing the freedom from home.

There is nothing like Saturday mornings in the 80’s.

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Saturday Morning

by Stephanie Daich

THE LIST -Poetry

 THE LIST

Do you want to go to church,

Or hide in your basement?

Do you seek the good,

Or wallow in complacent?

 

Do you notice other’s sins,

And pretend your heart is pure?

Do you serve for others to see,

While your intent you do obscure.

 

Did I notice this list,

Was talking about me?

Do you see yourself in it?

We all can change--Don’t you agree?

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The List

by Stephanie