PitchWars Hard Work: “Killing” Mrs. Krimble


Mrs. Krimble hanging strong in Chapter 1

“Kill your darlings,” they say. But Mrs. Krimble? I was so resistant to the idea. Austin Aslan, my PitchWars mentor was wise to introduce this murderous concept to me only a little bit at a time. “Killing” Mrs. Krimble was a concept I was slow to warm to. But, when I opened the email with my second wave of edits and I was forced to ask myself  again if I was willing to strike her from my story, I was surprised by my own enthusiasm. Oh heck yes! The woman has to go.

You see, ladies and gentlemen, my current young adult manuscript had entirely too much adult in it. No, I don’t mean racy-type content! I mean honest-to-goodness grown ups. Austin has been gracious enough to point this out to me before my book got laughed out of every opportunity in its possible future.

So the question I was left asking myself was Why? Why on Earth did I feel it was necessary to include so many adult figures in my novel about, and for, young adults (it was actually laughable when I read through the comments of a chapter where Austin pointed out their EVERY occurrence!)? I have (currently) come up with two working theories: 1. Nostalgia and/or 2. Need.


One of the things I loved about Mrs. Krimble and her presence in the novel was how much it reminded me of the stories I enjoyed when I was younger. Of course, this is ridiculous, because when I actually try to remember an ADULT from one of the stories I enjoyed in my youth I CAN NOT THINK OF ONE. So, perhaps, I should chalk up this one to DELUSION. The fact is Mrs. Krimble didn’t remind me of stories I read when I was younger, she reminded me of the life I had when when I was younger. This leads me to theory #2.

The second theory holds a lot more weight. A lot.


I drafted this story in 2012. At that time in my life I wanted nothing more than an adult to swoop into my life and take over. Since my mom’s passing in 2006 (my dad had passed away long before in 1988), my life had taken a more insane turn for the worse. image

I lost numerous health battles and, in turn, my career. My independence was gone — I was physically and financially dependent on others for a number of years. Everything about my life screamed childhood except for the expectations of the society around me. The world saw a thirty-something and expected me to behave that way, meanwhile, I was busy trying to learn how to walk again, how to see, read, and cope. I felt like an infant finding her way into the world, but the bills kept coming, the decisions still had to be made, I still had a husband, and a house, and all the grown up things that came with them. Life kept moving forward. I took baby steps forward, but I was always looking for the missing component: where were the grown ups who would take the lead? Where were the people who knew what to do? I craved their authority. Reading my manuscript now, that is glaringly obvious. If I couldn’t ride out my life trauma under the protection of my grown ups, well, at least I could give that gift to my protagonist.

I do believe we writers write what we need to. Our stories, either directly or indirectly, tackle the issues that plague us individually. This is why fiction resonates with us so deeply — why it makes us empathetic — because as fictional as the tale may be the truth that simmers beneath sings from the author’s soul to the reader’s.

The Ultimate Conclusion

My grown ups aren’t coming back. Living without them forced me into every raw, jagged edge life had to offer. I tripped. I fell. I scraped my knees and my soul. I lived. I became stronger. I redefined who I was.I — gasp! — grew up.

And you know what I realized? I owe all of this to my protagonist and my future readers. Here’s hoping I succeeded.

Now back to my writing…



Honoring my Reality as a Mommy-Writer

DIYMFA-Book-Cover-201x300The DIY MFA book by Gabriela Pereira is coming out soon. I was lucky enough to gain access to an advanced copy and I am loving it. I have been a fan of Gabriela since stumbling upon her DIYMFAradio podcast after reading an article of hers in WRITER’S DIGEST. One of the things that hooked me from the get-go was Gabriela’s philosophy of writers having to “honor their reality.” As a voracious reader of books on the craft of writing and memoirs of authors concerning their writing life, I started to beat myself up over my inability to “fit in” to any of their writing worlds. I started to think, If I can’t write like them, if I can’t create writing schedules like them, then maybe I can’t be a writer at all.

Thanks to Gabriela I learned that I don’t need to fit into anyone else’s mold of what writing is. I learned that I needed to honor MY reality.

Gabriela’s third question to the DIYMFA Street Team dealt with this topic head-on.

QOTW 3: Tell a story about a time when you had to honor your reality.

unnamed(1)My reality has been a bit of a bitch. Please excuse my French, but there it is. I “became” a writer in the midst of the worst of it – two chronic conditions were kicking my butt, threatening my vision and had already stolen the career of my dreams. I was home, on disability, lonely, sick, and scared. I started writing. There was no big publishing end goal – there was only a desire to connect with humanity. There was also a desire to prove that I still mattered. The words came, my story was told, and then I began to make up other stories. Writing filled my days and nights. Audiobooks fueled my imagination and the Internet kept me connected.

There was no question of when or how I would write, I just did. It was all I could do in the beginning – with my zoomed computer screens and inability to walk without getting dizzy – there was no question of honoring my reality, my reality offered me nothing else. For this reason, since writing came as easily as I desired it, I never foresaw the obstacles that may arise in my writing in my future.

In 2013, with both of my chronic conditions deciding to take five at the same time, I became pregnant. I felt healthier than I had in YEARS. It was magnificent for so many reasons. I laughed. I danced. I partied. I enjoyed every aspect of life but one:

I could not write.

I couldn’t tell you why. My theory is that my creative energies were too focused on the human-building project within me, but I have no scientific proof that such things happen. At first I battled. I tried forcing myself to the page. I began so many stories and finished none. I continued attending my writing group meetings, but not regularly. The guilt crept in, but then the joy overwhelmed it. I can’t say that I honored my reality at that time, I was too busy celebrating it.

I didn’t discover DIYMFAradio until my son was already born. It was a year after he was born and the writing was still spotty. I had told myself that the path to being the best mother was being the best me. I told myself I needed to embrace my writing for my son’s sake. All of that clicked and made sense, but the writing was still not coming – that’s when the guilt came in. That’s when I looked to other’s writing lives and wondered why I couldn’t fit mine in. Just about when it was all about to crush me I heard Gabriela’s podcast episode about Honoring your reality.

I reassessed my situation: giving birth, no sleep, breastfeeding, no sleep, fever/sickness, surgery, colicky baby, teething baby, exhaustion, quality time with my son, old illnesses reemerging, new ailments presenting themselves, juggling chores with a newborn… my reality had a lot going on. A lot of brand new things showed up that required my attention to ensure I learned the new rules. I decided to give myself a break. I was still a writer, but I needed a bit of a sabbatical to figure out what had become of my life.

My guilt was lifted. I told myself my job was to look for where I could fit writing into my new life – little by little – and to practice new routines. I scheduled writing group meetings that worked for my whole family and made those days a priority for me.

My son just turned two and sometime since he was born and now I have done three revisions on a novel I wrote before he was born. I have already pitched it and I have plans to begin the query process before the end of the year. I can honestly say that if I did not allow myself the time and space to honor my reality, none of this would have happened. I would still be spinning the wheels of guilt trying to figure out why I have not been as productive as Stephen King and Neil Gaiman!


Do you honor your reality?

Have you ever looked to someone else’s writing life as a model to follow? Whose life? How did it go?


Why I DIY my MFA

DIYMFA-Book-Cover-201x300This summer Gabriela Pereira will be releasing her DIYMFA book. I am super excited for it because I have been a fan of DIYMFA and DIYMFA radio for quite some time. In an effort to boost our excitement about the book’s release Gabriela has asked some of us on her DIYMFA Street Team to answer some questions and share those answers with the world. As with all things in my life, I have been running a little late with these answers, but here’s my stab at question #1.

Question of the Week: Have you ever thought about getting an MFA? If so, did you pursue it? (And what was that experience like?) If not, what have you been doing instead to enhance your writing education?

WHY I DIYMFAAs a former educator, my love affair with school seemed to have no end. I was addicted to education. I stepped out of college, got a job as a teacher, and spent every single summer off in another school of higher education learning more and more and more.

Then I got sick and everything had to stop.

When I was home, recovering, I found my writer’s voice. I began to blog, and stretch myself creatively. I loved what I was doing, but felt like a fraud. I called myself an “aspiring writer” – as if the act of writing itself did not bestow the title upon me. I started to research my educational options – where could I go to become a writer? That was when I learned about MFA programs.

I’d scroll through admissions pages, program descriptions, and I would dream. In between I would fraudulently continue to write – not only on my own blog, but now on other people’s blogs! What was I thinking? At every step I’d think, I have to start applying, but there were so many obstacles – my finances and inconsistent health leading the pack.

I couldn’t stop writing, though. I was drawn to it with such a ferocity. I started reading books about the craft, following writers and becoming friends with writers online, and then I joined writer’s communities. Online I became a member and writer for StoryDam, in “real life” I joined a local writer’s group.

I kept aspiring to be a writer. By writing. Then one day someone on Twitter saw that “aspiring writer” description in my bio and they called me on it. It was in the middle of one of #StoryDam’s weekly chats. The person asked why I wrote that I was an aspiring writer. They asked, “Do you write?”

I said something like, “Well, on my blog, sometimes.”

And they said that they didn’t care if it was on a scrap of paper that no one would ever see. If I wrote, then I was a writer. They explained that I was confusing the term writer with published author.

And they were right.

I started to wonder what else I was confused about. Did I really need an MFA to accomplish my goals? The answer was a resounding no. While I will never rule out anything completely, I can say that I now understand that I was never truly addicted to education – I have been, and always wil be, addicted to learning, and learning can happen anywhere!

So while I wait for my finances to bounce back, my health to cooperate, or my son to be old enough to not need me 24/7, I have found countless ways to create my own writing education through podcasts, books, magazines, and a writing community. Anyone can do it, and you can personalize it your own needs. It’s pretty awesome. Just to give you a taste of where I find these inspirations right now, here are some of my favorite resources in each of those categories:


  • DIYMFA radio – obviously one of my favorites. Gabriela has great interviews with creatives, and a number of episodes focused on writing tips of her own.
  • Writers on Writing – each episode has two interviews with current published authors, focusing discussion on the craft of writing.
  • Magic Lessons – this podcast will be coming back this summer, but in the meantime, treat yourself to going back to the beginning and listening to all that Elizabeth Gilbert has to offer. Each episode Gilbert helps an author with an issue blocking them creatively. She follows up each discussion with the writer in need, with an interview from a professional who can give targeted advice to the person she’s helping. There is too much awesome in these episodes!


  • On Writing by Stephen King – not a how-to manual, by any means. This man is a writing monster. However, it is an inspiration to read, and has lots of great tips about how to get through big writing projects.
  • Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg – a really fast read filled with gems to wake up your muse.
  • Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott – this book is the perfect follow up to On Writing, or at least it was for me. Lamott is (probably unintentionally) brilliantly forgiving when she describes the reality of “shitty first drafts.” She drives a perfect balance between the splendor and torture of the writing life.
  • Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert – well, I can’t recommend the podcast, and then not recommend the book that inspired it, can I? I listened to the audiobook version of this book – it is every kind of wonderful for all creative souls, not just writers.


  • WRITERS DIGEST – I don’t subscribe for one reason: I like to have something to grab when I sit down at the cafe in the bookstore. I grab it, sit down with it, and tell myself I will leave it there so I’ll have something to read when I come back. That never works. I buy it. Every time. The articles are that good.


  • StoryDam – this is a great, relaxed online writing community that holds weekly Twitter chats on Thursday nights at 8PM EST. Follow along with #StoryDam to see all of us checking with each other throughout the week, but be sure to tune in Thursday night to make some fantastic connections.
  • 10MinNovelists – another great online community that also has a presence on Twitter – and a Thursday night chat (9PM EST), but I tend to connect with them more on Facebook. Either way, this is a growing group of writers at all differnt levels who are very active all week long.
  • My local writing group – nothing, and I do mean NOTHING has helped me grow more as a writer than my own group of humans that I meet face to face with on a monthly (if not more frequently) basis. I wrote a series of blog posts about putting together and maintaining a writing group, so if you don’t have one yet, you might want to check those posts out.


So, if you are waiting for your acceptance into the writing community, and looking for where you can learn more, join me in our endeavors to create our own, personalized education!

First Draft Fiction – Change the World

The following is a first draft of a short story written as part of the Story A Day May 2016 Challenge.

This is Story #5 for day 5 (being a l little late is turning into a habit here…).

In the comments below, please share your critique of the story. Also, let me know if this is a character/story you’d be interested in reading more about.


Every teacher dreams they will change the world. Richard Jenson, hish school English teacher in Williamston, did. He meddled with magics he didn’t understand and brought forth a new age of man.

“What superpower would you want, and, if granted it, what would you do with it?” He supplied his students with the enchanted paper and pencils made from wood of a tree that performed photosynthesis under moonlight. As the students filled the pages with their responses their bodies responded and, by the dawn of the next day, they were each imbued with powers they could hardly understand. It did not take long for them to realize Jenson was the father of their evolution. They returned to him for answers, with questions, and some wanted cures.

Not one was granted what they wished. Jenson had died in his sleep. His life was the price for the power. Or, to be clear, it was the first price. Richard Jenson changed the world with his assignment – he single-handedly brought on World War III and the destruction of industrial society.



I did not use either of the prompts from the Story a Day website tonight because I was super tired and not finding an entryway into either that would result in a short enough story for me. So, I picked up my pad (pictured above, next to my story) and challenged myself to write a story that would begin and end on the front of the page before me.


First Draft Fiction – The Life of a Spoon

The following is a first draft of a short story written as part of the Story A Day May 2016 Challenge.

This is Story #4 for day 4 (even though I am late again!).

In the comments below, please share your critique of the story. Also, let me know if this is a character/story you’d be interested in reading more about.


I had one job. I was created to feed, or at least aid in the process. I’m like a tiny shovel for food so humans don’t get all sloppy when eating stuff like soup or ice cream. That’s what they told me at the factory, and for years that’s what I had been doing.

I’m a long, slender spoon. The family had gotten into a routine of using me just for ice cream sundaes. It was a lot of fun. I loved the cold, creamy stuff I’d be stirred into, and when the woman added the warm chocolate to the mix, it was euphoric. Nuts and sprinkles were a little rough, but seen so infrequently I can hardly complain about it.

The drawer they kept me in was extra nice. I was kept In compartment with a bunch of nice guys and gals the same shape as me. We fit together so nicely and slept soundly. There was no restless jumbling when the drawer was pulled open for other utensils. It was a peaceful life. It was a happy life.

Then the kid showed up and everything changed. They started using me inside his long, tall bottles to stir this abhorrent powder into warm water that I think he was supposed to drink (they called it “formula”). At the time I felt bad for him. At the time I didn’t know how closely our fates would be intertwined.

When the formula stopped, and the kid started getting “food,” somehow I was expected to deal with that too. You’ll have noticed the quotes I placed around the word food, I’m sure. Well, that’s because this categorization is questionable at best. It didn’t look anything like what the others ate, or what they claimed it to be (since when is chicken an orange paste?). It was soft and creamy like the ice cream, but hot and strangely colored. The smells were pretty bad too. The worst part was that the kid didn’t even like it.

But it got worse.

Not too long after that I was given to him! This kid has no idea what he is doing! He has smacked me upside his head, attempted shoving my handle up his nose, bit down on me like I’m some kind of fork, and – perhaps worst of all – has taken me away from the food. I don’t think the woman or man have any idea about this, but I have not been returned to the drawer in weeks! To be perfectly honest with you I have no idea where I am right now. There was absolutely nothing in my training to prepare me for this. It is the brightest place I have ever been at times, and then, in a seemingly regular rhythm, it becomes as dark as the drawer, though I feel no protection from the elements or comforting clang of my brother and sister spoons. The dog has come to visit me a couple of times – the damn dog! – and done things to me I wish not to speak of. The kid has also visited me with his toys and with hands that are in no way fit for eating. I am not used to mingling with such filth or varying atmospheres. Yesterday water poured down on me in darkness for hours upon hours. It was so disconcerting – I get washed in the sink, with a sponge, or, as I prefer it, it the caress of knowledgeable, soapy hands. I should be washed here, wherever here is.

I fear that this is it for me. Forgotten by the people, under the care of some untrained, cruel child with no clue about the ways of the world. This is not the life of a spoon! If you know where I am send help, please.



I have been using the prompts from the Story A Day site for every story this week, but the prompt was extremely open-ended today. It said:

The Prompt

Write a story in the first person

For many, this may have been an enormous challenge on its own, but, for me, first person is what I do. I found myself drowning in the endless possibilities of what this meant. I felt desperate for something more specific.

I crumbled and added a prompt of my own, from the Silly Starters Write-Abouts for Grades 1-3. And, yes, the prompt was very silly:


First Draft Fiction – It Only Takes One

The following is a first draft of a short story written as part of the Story A Day May 2016 Challenge.

This is Story #3 for day 3 (which also happens to be Teacher Appreciation Day).

In the comments below, please share your critique of the story. Also, let me know if this is a character/story you’d be interested in reading more about.



The last sentence I used for my prompt. From Joe Kelly’s I KILL GIANTS.


First period I was late, of course. John smelled like pot and Mazie was sleeping through my entire class. There was no talking to either, then, but I was worried about both. The lesson was a bit lumpy, but a couple of my bright lights seemed to follow along.

Second period not a single student had even looked at the homework assignment. Was there some sort of conspiracy against me? I couldn’t even entertain what I planned. We did the homework together. I’ll try again tomorrow.

Third period, I found John in the hallway, walked him to his class and chatted about the smoking. I got him to agree to not smoke before my class. Small win. That means he’s not smoking on the way to school. I have to believe it’s harder to smoke during the day. I hope. Then, in the teacher’s lounge everyone was talking about a new teacher rating site online. Our students apparently discovered it and most of the staff was rated. I was told I was there. I didn’t look.

Fourth period the assistant principal decided to pop in and observe my teaching unannounced. Thank the teaching gods on high – it went well. Farris got the class rolling with an over the top response to my leading question. He set the bar high. And, thankfully, my fourth period is my most competitive class, so the group assignments turned out to be a real tour de force even though they were talking all the way through. The AP slipped out two minutes before the bell, stopping by me on the way out and whispering, “Impressive.”

Fifth period, I grabbed my lunch out of my locker, brought it over to the phone and made two calls – one to Mazie’s home and one to Farris’s. Mazie’s mom was sick, so Mazie’s been taking care of dinner, two kids, bathtime, and I was exhausted just thinking about it. I told her mom to let her know we’ll make up the lesson and the homework next Monday. Farris’s grandma was surprised to hear how well he performed in class and I was elated I made the call. The teachers in the lounge were still all abuzz about the rating site. I gave in. I checked it. My overall rating was high. But I noticed one red thumbs down. It was the only one I clicked to read the comment. “She doesn’t care.” Some invisible force reached inside my body, ripped my heart out and threw it out the window.

Sixth period I felt hollow. I looked around the room. Which student was it? Who had I been ignoring? Who had I neglected? The lesson was robotic. The instruction was there, the notes were being taken, but I knew it was all forgettable. I had failed this class this day.

Seventh period Farris swung by the classroom with a bathroom pass, barging in to say thanks. His grandmother texted him. She’s proud. He proclaimed in front of the class that I am the best teacher in the building. I fight to hold back the tears. I am not. I am always late. His words are lies. My students don’t do their homework. He doesn’t know. My classes talk through all of their work. He’s still learning. I don’t care. I am the teacher. I’m ignoring someone. I know the truth. One of them thinks I don’t care. The class was buoyed by his comments, they were more involved, perhaps all shooting for their own congratulatory call, but I was done. I fed the lesson to them, counting the minutes to the final bell.

The bell rang. It was over. I let every last student leave before I headed for the door. I couldn’t be around them. I felt inauthentic. I was not who they thought I was. The hallway was empty when I got there. I headed back to the lounge to gather my things. The lounge was empty too. I was grateful. I needed time to figure out what I was doing wrong. I needed to figure out which students felt this way and why. At my locker the first tear finally fell.
It was all for nothing if they didn’t feel cared about, safe. What was the point? I thought about how my mom has always wanted me to leave teaching to work in finance. I thought  about a career that is 9 to 5 and nothing more – work begins when you arrive and ends when you leave. I thought I don’t belong. I thought that the kids deserve much better than someone who doesn’t care.

I let the emotions take me for a minute, then wiped my eyes and readied myself to head home. On the way out of the lounge I saw the computer was still on and that page was open. Everything in me said to walk away, but one voice said maybe I could figure out who was unhappy. I opened my page. Forty-two thumbs up, one thumbs down, and two hearts. I clicked the hearts. The first had no comment. The second saved my soul, because it only takes one to make or break your day. I still have no idea who wrote it. It said the following:

I never thought too much about how teachers impact my life. I mean, they are there every day and, yes, they get to know you pretty well, but I never thought of it as anything beyond my grades and stuff. Then my world fell apart. I’m not going to put all my business up here for the Internet, but it was bad. She noticed. She asked. We talked a long, long time. I don’t know what would have happened to me if we didn’t talk that day. I was having pretty ugly thoughts about life. But she changed it all. She said so much, but one thing I’ll never forget and I’ll be forever thankful for. It has become my life motto. She said, “We’re stronger than we think.”



The story above was created using a prompt on the Story A Day website. It was also inspired by twelve years of teaching. This story is dedicated to all those still in the classroom on today’s Teacher Appreciation Day.


Take the last line from your favorite book or choose one from the list below. Now write a short piece that ends with that line.

I chose the last line from I KILL GIANTS by Joe Kelly. It is pictured above with my story.

First Draft Fiction – Dinner Disaster

The following is a first draft of a short story written as part of the Story A Day May 2016 Challenge.

This is Story #2 for (a little late ) day 2.

In the comments below, please share your critique of the story. Also, let me know if this is a character/story you’d be interested in reading more about.



The prompt

“That bitch has no one to blame but herself!” Jaimie said with the phone clutched between her cheek and shoulder while shuffling through her bag to find her keys. She found them, put them in one hand and grabbed the phone with the other. “I don’t give a shit what ‘state’ she was in – there is no reason to act that way.” She didn’t know I was in the parking lot. She didn’t know I could hear every word she said.

I wondered if it was worth it to go over to her to tell her that I now believed the whole thing to be a frame job. I followed her at a distance, taking the moment to think back to the holiday where it all began. I was in the middle of another relative-relay — trying to ensure my love and appreciation from the entire year was appropriately represented in this single day’s action. I had worn the wrong outfit, forgetting the necessity of an elastic waist when family dinners are involved. Jaimie, my brother’s wife, had made her “famous” sweet potato casserole. Her kids loved it, I thought it tasted like a pail of sugar with a toasted marshmallow on top. While I had already resigned myself to gain some weight from my holiday hell, by the time I got to Jaimie’s I decided I didn’t want to raise my sugar level to diabetic-coma levels along with it.
I tried to be polite.
I simply declined the plate as it was passed. It wasn’t a big deal until the mayor – an unfortunate result of my brothers fraternity days – walked in. He never stayed long, just a quick schmooze around the table, but that’s when my cousin Hazel passed the sugar plate back around to me. When I declined again she said, “You really hate Jaimie’s cooking, huh?” Of course the mayor turned, looked at me, then back at Jaimie.
I started to reply when the mayor spoke over me, telling the room, “Sorry I couldn’t stay longer. The airplane won’t wait for little ol’ me!” I thought I could piggyback on his exit before things got really awkward, so I said, “I should head out too,” while standing up and heading toward the door.

I was moving slowly, due to my gluttony, but not carefully because I wanted out of there fast. Maybe if I wasn’t so flustered, I might have seen Hazel’s move. She slipped her foot out just in time for mine to catch. I tripped and tried to save myself with the mantel.

It all happened so fast.
And yet, it was like it was all slow motion.

I remember it all.

I can still smell grandma’s remains as they flew out of the urn showering the mayor.
I’m not surprised Jaimie never wants to see me again. I am just curious whether or not anyone knows Hazel’s part in all of this.

I snapped out of my reverie and saw that Jaimie was at her car. It looked like it came off the dealer lot that morning. Perfect just like everything Jaimie had under her control. Hazel knew how to play to her, I did not. I wondered if my outfit wasn’t appropriate enough to approach her and plead my case. I missed my nieces. I missed my brother. I wanted back in. I took two steps and could hear her voice again, “I’m relieved she’s gone, Hazel. She’s lucky to have you, if you ask me. You have always been so good to her. I’ll never understand why.”
I turned around. I walked back to my car, and, as I tossed my duplicate purchases onto the passenger seat, I wondered if I should send my nieces their birthday gifts anonymously.



The following prompt, found on the Story A Day website, inspired this story:


Write a story containing all of these words from a fourth grade spelling list.


First Draft Fiction – Not My Photos

The following is a first draft of a short story written as part of the Story A Day May 2016 Challenge.

This is Story #1 for day 1.

In the comments below, please share your critique of the story.


Before my coffee, before my shower, before I even bother to reach over to my nightstand to grab my glasses to focus on the world around me, before any easing into my day, I always grab my phone. Sometimes I check the weather, or the news, or check in to social media. On that morning I wanted so desperately to recapture the frivolity of the night before – especially since my pounding head was ensuring that I’d be paying for it all day. That’s why I was scrolling through my photos at 5AM. It was supposed to make me smile, or at least stop me from cringing at the daylight seeping through my windows.

“What the fuck?” I couldn’t help but say the words aloud in my crackled, sleepy voice. I scrolled past the photos from last night, and the day before, all the way back to Christmas and still didn’t understand what I was seeing. I grabbed my glasses and slid up so I was sitting against my headboard. Unfortunately I had been jarred into action without any comfort.

Not one of the photos were recognizable. I did not recognize one photo in the gallery, nor did I recognize any of the people or places these photos captured.

My heart sank.

I must have switched phones with a stranger.

But… No.

I let the tech weigh heavy in my hand. It felt right. It looked right. The case was identical to mine. And… I reflected on my groggy grab when I first put the phone on – I had typed in my passcode. I closed the gallery and checked the email – mine. Closed the inbox and checked Facebook – my News Feed. I closed it out, scrolled through the home screen – all the apps were recognizable and in place. I clicked open my music and every tune was where I left it.

Closed it.


I opened up the photo sharing site, tapped my profile @insta_terry_gram. The name was right. The bio was right. The pictures were all wrong. They were the same shitty, unrecognizable pics from my gallery, minus some of the duplicates that were obvious remnants of incessant retakes on a quest toward perfection.

I tapped the phone icon, and called Susan. She picked up on the fourth ring and sounded miserable, “Are you in a ditch? Dead? Dying? Quickly say yes or I’m hanging up.”

“Susan,” I said as calmly as I could. My voice was fully powered now. My entire body had risen to the occasion of my fear. “Something freaky is going on.”

I guess I my terror translated because Susan didn’t hang up. In fact, it sounded as though she pressed more closely into her phone when she said, “Honey, are you alright?”

The sincerity of her concern struck deep. I could not hold back my tears, “I don’t know.”

“Oh my god,” she said, “FaceTime. Right now.”

That was Susan’s go to. When shit got out of hand, she needed to speak face to face, even if that meant talking through a screen. Before I could protest the request came pinging through my phone. Her name sat a top my screen, clearly stating that it was her calling me, merely taking our audio call to more amplified, video connection. I clicked the option to accept the call at which my phone’s camera came on and the screen flickered to connect with Susan. We had done this so many times before. It was all second nature. Neither of us shocked or ashamed by our disheveled looks of distraught, or exhaustion, or grief. We had seen each other in every possible horror and delight. There shouldn’t have been anything to shock or surprise me on that screen.

But, of course, there was.

When the picture came on, it was not Susan on the other end. It was a pair of people I have never seen. They were not in their beds, completely undone, barely greeting the day, and bracing to deal with a crisis. These two women were pristine, bright, perfectly made-up, smiling and – upon seeing my face – cheering.

Oh yes, you read that correctly, upon seeing my day-old crusty make-up, bed-head hair, and obviously blotched up cry-face, these two women cheered. “We did it! We did it” They yelled to each other and then in multiple directions out of my view. “Come see!” one of them added, which resulted in more heads cramming into view.

To be perfectly honest with you, I was astonished. I don’t use that word too often in its truest sense, but in that moment astonishment encapsulated me whole. “Uh… hello?” I said.

One of the two woman screamed and started laughing all at once. The one next to her did her best to try to suppress what I imaged would have been an equally loud outburst when she said, “Yes, I’m sorry. Hello. How are you?”

I raised my eyebrows at the mundane nature of the greeting. “Nope. No.” I couldn’t stop my head from shaking back and forth. “Who are you?”

“Oh yes! Sorry Crescent Labs twenty-one thirty-six. We are testing phone 6 of twenty fifteen. What time is it?”

I squinted at the time on the top of my phone screen and answered, “It’s 5:23AM Eastern time here. Definitely a different time zone. Are you guys in Europe or something?” I was beginning to think Susan and I had somehow picked up someone’s International call. It was weird, but it was becoming clear to me that my phone was somehow crossing streams with someone else’s wifi or something. I was due to visit the Apple store to have one of those self-proclaimed “geniuses” sort all this shit out. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

Yore-rrrip?” one of the guys in the background said, while the woman who was talking to me went wide-eyed. Her friend stopped laughing. I even thought I heard an “oh shit” from somewhere off screen.

“Ma’am? Did you say a different time zone?” the woman asked me, now smile-less.

“Yeah. I don’t know. I’m figuring my wifi is screwing with me or something. My phone is wonky,” I stood up from my bed, walked over to the window, opened the curtains and turned the camera out so they could see my view of the Hudson River, “Sun’s barely up over here in New York.”

There were gasps and excited voices. Multiple voices whispering different questions and exclamations like, “New York?” or “Did you see the water?” and, I think someone said, “Did she say wifi?”

When I turned the phone back around the woman was alone and tears were in her eyes. “Ma’am. I am so sorry. What is your name?”

As I watched the sun hit the water outside my window my fears of technological glitches slipped away. I put the phone down on my dresser as I grabbed a scrunchie to do my best to tame my hair on the spot. “It’s okay. No worries. I’m Terry. This is some weird techie-shit. That’s all. I probably need to upgrade anyway.”

She laughed a little, but there was no humor in it. “Terry, what’s today’s date?”

“Oh shit. I don’t know…” I started clicking buttons on my phone to access the calendar. “The first,” I said, clicking back to the FaceTime screen,”May.”

“The year?” she said, eyebrows raised and eyes glossy.

“Two thousand sixteen. Finally getting used to saying it. Usually takes me about a half a year to lock that shit down.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she said with lips pressed tight, nodding and looking down. “Twenty sixteen. Right. Of course.” She closed her eyes for a moment and I saw a single tear fall down her cheek before she opened them again and looked back up into the camera. “Thank you Terry. Sorry for the mix up.” Then she disconnected the call.

Within the next minute, as I was trying to call Susan back, my phone did one of those funky reboots no one asked it to and when it came back on all my pictures had returned. It was fixed. Obviously some techie-glitch that righted itself like all good tech should.

That was it. It was over. I didn’t think about it again… Until this morning.

I was doing my thing again – checking my phone before greeting my day – and, again, found myself scrolling through photos. There was a new one, with a weird date – May 13, 2136. It looked like one of those inspirational quotes because it was just words on a white background. I grabbed my glasses and clicked on it. Here’s what it said:


Sorry about the other day. We weren’t trying to contact you. We didn’t know we could. Lots of arguments about what to do with that power now that we can, and questions of whether or not we should. I can’t wait for them to make up their mind. The water, Terry, you have to save it. I know you’re just one person with no idea how to save the world, but this is it. Spread the word. Stop the Water Wars. We lost it all. I’m going to try to time-tell as many people as will listen. You are the first.

Iris Cilencia, Crescent Labs, 13/5/2136



StoryADay500x500The following prompt found on the Story A Day website inspired this story:


When Terry began scrolling through her phone, none of the photos she found were hers.

Story A Day May 2016

StoryADay500x500Well, ladies and gents, I found a thing.Story A Day May is exactly what it sounds like. It’s a month long challenge for me to write a different story every day of May. While I am not typically a pessimist, I do not foresee 31 stories coming out of me by the end of this month, but I’m reaching for the stars anyway.

I found out about this thanks to one of my favorite podcast obsessions – DIYMFAradio. It was from an episode I should have listened to earlier than this morning (thereby giving me more time to prepare for this writing feat), but I’m happy I discovered it in time to join the May madness right at the beginning of the month! While I would love to go on ad infinitum about why I love DIYMFA and why I think Story A Day is the right fit for me right now, I think I should get to work on my first story of the month, don’t you? There’s little time to waste – I only have today to work on it, tomorrow will have to be something new!


  • Do you think I am crazy for doing this?
  • Do you write every day?
  • In terms of writing challenges, which do you prefer – this idea of a different story every day of the month, or something like NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) – a challenge to write one long novel-length story by the end of a month?

Constructing a Story from A to Z – Z is for Zoom

We have reached the end. ALPHABLOCK had a lot of choices for Z, many traditional children’s book choices were audaciously ignored in favor stating “Z is for Zoom!” This is lots of fun when reading to a toddler, but I felt it left me in an awkward position to close up our month long story. Here it is:

“Mommy goes zoom!” Dani cried with glee as we arrived at Alexander’s car and stole back my daughter’s elephant-dog.

Here’s our story’s COMPLETED first draft:

I saw an apple to my left and I wondered if Snow White could taste the danger in her fateful bite. The balloons that surrounded the entrance and the table of the carnival did nothing to relieve my feelings of other-worldliness. I carried my tray of cookies to the PTA’s donor table and tried to escape before Mrs. Jameson could spot me.

“No bye-bye dog!” my daughter cried.

“Dog is an elephant, baby,” I said, unable to ignore this teachable moment.Dani was only two years old and still had issues with the animal kingdom – frogs were fish, birds were “eh-planes,” cats were bears, and her beloved Dumbo stuffed animal was, of course, a dog. She let go of my hand and ran, screaming, toward the “garden of fears” assembled by the high school theater group. I felt the heartbeat hammer of panic as she disappeared through crowds of distracted teens. I plowed through after her feeling the cold shock of an ice cream shake bursting out of the its flimsy carnival cup, showering its owner and me. At once I was a frantic juggler palming the straw and lid, paper cup, gobs of chilly chocolate goo, and insincere apologies to the poor girl who I just trashed. A kite came out of the sky onto my head. I smelled the lemonade before it hit me. The moon-pie was the final straw.

I burst free of the crowd – a manic mother bird whose chick had fallen from her nest. I stretched out my mother’s intuition in all directions, like a mystical octopus with tentacles of Dani-sense probing the crowd-sea around me. I reached a clearing , saw a volunteer with an orange vest and a pencil in hand kneeling down beside a sobbing Dani. As I looked at her Snow White shirt with the evil queen clutching the bewitched apple, I wondered why I thought that was an appropriate outfit for my child. I rushed to her side, gathered her in an enormous embrace covering her with the rainbow of rubbish that covered my clothing. I felt icy scissors of rejection when she pulled away crying, “No mommy.” Then, pulling away again, she said, “Dog on train.”

The volunteer bent over helping me keep a hold on her, embarrassingly exposing his underwear and more butt crack than I was comfortable being exposed to. I heard a strange violin tune blare from the carousel to the right and caught a glimpse of the train just beyond it. In the front car was Alexander, my neighbor’s kid, always trapping Dani’s toys in his web of mischievous torture. I knew an x-ray vision of the scene would expose Dani’s Dumbo in the seat next to him. I grabbed Dani, ran past the carousel, the tiny yachts controlled by remote steering wheels, and past the line for the train.

“Mommy goes zoom!” Dani cried with glee as we arrived at Alexander’s car and stole back my daughter’s elephant-dog.

If you are new to this blog, or finding this post disjointed from the rest of the challenge I have taken on this month, you may be (understandably) curious about what the heck I am doing here. The explanation of the challenge and the prompt I am using can be found in my theme reveal post. Check it out, and follow the links in that post to visit some other fascinating blogs that have taken on this month’s a to z challenge!


I welcome all kinds of constructive critique! Please keep in mind this is a first draft, so I’m looking for input as I will be jumping into edits and rewrites as soon as the month is through. If you want to wait until the end of the month to see the whole story before critiquing, that’s fine too.

The first draft is complete! This leaves me with a number of questions for you as we enter into next month’s work:

  1. What do you think of the story as whole?
  2. If you were given veto power to eliminate one sentence of your choice, which would you pick? Would you get rid of it completely or want a rewrite?
  3. Any thoughts about a title for this story as it is right now?
  4. Does this story feel complete to you as is? If not, do you need more story before or after this scene?