Another short story from the past, a free write.  This is how it tumbled out of me, as is.  This time not disturbing or weird.  But definitely close to my heart.

The prompt?  Put your heart on the page.  And so I did.  And here it is.


Somewhere in the outskirts of Oregon City, out in the country, out in the backyard of a one-story ranch style house, there is an arrangement of stones.  On top of these stones, maybe, there is a decaying daffodil.  Under these stones, under the soft warm dirt, there is a cardboard box.  In that decaying cardboard box there is a plastic bag, tied off at the top.  And in that plastic bag sleeps Mytzie.

Long, long ago, south of that burial site in Oregon City, in a city called Salem, a little baby girl was born.  She was born healthy and happy, and was taken home to her own room with a mother, father, and a brother.

About the same time, a little baby girl kitten was born.  A beautiful blue-eyed Siamese girl.  And for some reason, this little kitten when it was big enough, snuck away from her own family, and ran into a house that had a baby girl human about her age.

The brother of the household, even though he was allergic to pets, begged the mother and father to keep this little blue-eyed kitten.  The father, who had a big warm gooshy spot in his heart, and the mother, who didn't like cats but had a little warm spot of her own despite this, relented.  And the brother named the cat Mytzie.

And that is how I got Mytzie.

Mytzie would jump up in my crib while I slept, and would curl up next to me.  My mother, who didn't hold much stock in old wive's tales about cat's stealing babies breath, would stand over us and smile.  And I was happy.

But, just like every other human created, I grew.  I grew into a girl child.  I was curious, and rambunctious, and had my own ideas on things and would set my mind to them.  

And just like every feline created, the little kitten grew too.  She grew into a cat.  A play thing that grows fur, and walks, and everything.  I would chase the cat around the house, give her haircuts, dress her in doll clothes, drag her around on a self-made leash.  I even attempted to curl her hair with a curling iron.

And when she didn't do as I wanted, I would hit her.  And when I did what she didn't want, she would lightly bite me, or swap her paw at me, not hurting me, but letting me know this was not her idea of fun.  

And the kitty more and more began to sleep with the brother.

Soon, the tantramatic child that I was grew into a young teen-ager.  My experiments and tortures dropped off as I grew into adulthood.  And more and more at night, I would hear my door creak open, and the light steps of cat feet cross my carpet.  I would fall asleep with a warm bundle purring away, perched upon me.

But sometimes I was a very sad young teen-ager.  Sometimes I felt unloved and unnoticed.  And I would cry.  And then that warm bundle would pad over to em, and lick my tears away, until I curled up with her and fell asleep.  And I felt loved.

More and more, I grew  I grew until I was a young woman more concerned with the life-sized Kens than I was with the plastic ones.  Right beside me, Mytzie grew too.  She grew into an old kitty, passing her teen years while I passed my diapers.  So, at night, as she would pad into my room I would her her claws catching on the carpet, and would wait in the growing pause as she tried to get up enough energy to jump onto my bed.  I would curl up with her and cry, thinking of the day she would leave me.  And she would lick those tears away, too.

Older and older, until one day time saw the mother, brother, and daughter standing around a metal vet table, with tears running down their faces.  The old cat looked up at the family, with her now cloudy blue eyes.  She was tired of the IV's that the daughter tried to feed her, tired of throwing up, and just tired of being old.  

The little girl, who wasn't so little anymore, picked the cat up for the last time, and told her she loved her.  And the kitty went to sleep.

And that night, the little girl heard no door creaking open.  And she heard no padding feet across her floor.  And she felt no rough tounge wiping away her tears.  That night, the little girl slept alone.

And that is how I came to love Mytzie.
I'm having a bit of an existentialist crisis, currently.  I'm feeling a bit lost, to be honest.  All my life I've been focused on who I was going to be when I grow up.  And I have picked up and discarded careers as if they were pebbles on the beach.  Picking each one up, and examining it, and asking "Is this the one?  Is this who I AM?"

Bouncing back and forth on acting.  After all, it was my passion, in a big way.  And then I got into the real world, and realized that it is hard.  And frustrating.  And poor.  And mean.  Well, maybe not mean, but certainly cold.  And it left me feeling a little less.

Then I thought, I need to Do Something Good.  That's it!  If I am to be a Good Person, then I need to have a Good Job.  So I've been frantically picking up stones and turning them over, trying to find the right fit.  I want to Save The World.  So, I'll do something international.  And I began trotting down that path, eventually ending up working with impressive people, even meeting Impressive People.

But I have learned, the closer you get to something, the more complicated it gets.  Conflict, anger, disrespect.  And I wonder, is anything Good being done?  And yes, of course I am sure it is, but it gets all tied up with human beings.  Because we, as human beings, are certainly not perfect.  And even a perfect idea gets pretty messy when humans get involved with it.

I begin to wonder if Doing Good in the world is even really possible.  Or is it just a way to alleviate our own egos?  Yes, you can feed people.  And heal them.  But it seems like the basic problems are still there.  Corruption, conflict, war, power-mongering.  

But yes, I do think that doing something, anything, can help.  I don't want to sound totally bleak here.  Though the help that can be given is slow in creating change, much like the river carving out the Grand Canyon.  Sure, you can make something majestic, if you have a few thousand or million years.

Which really takes me back to, why do I want to have a career where I Do Good?  Is it because I feel drawn to that, that it represents my inner longings?  Because I believe that we should follow our hearts, and what our heart guides us to, is often where we can make the biggest impact, the biggest difference.  And I'm really grateful that there are many hearts out there pulled to make a difference in those far away places.

But the honest truth is, I think I want a job where I Do Good because I'm caught up in this idea that our culture dishes out which is What We Do = Who We Are.  Hi, my name's Joe and I'm a plumber.  My name's Maria and I'm the President.  This is who we ARE.  So, if I have a job that is Good, then it means that I am Good.

But really, when it comes down to the core of our humanity, is there really a difference between the plumber and the president?  I mean, perhaps there is, but it isn't because of the job that they do.  The job they do is just how they spend their time. 

Who they ARE comes out in the details.  How they treat the crazy person that comes up to them muttering on the street, or the way they pause and hold the door open for the person behind them.  It is in these tiny details that who we are, our humanity, comes out.  And how we do our job, the love and care that we put into it, or the anger and resentment, define who we are.  And whether we live our lives in a state of joy, or a state of anger.  That is who we are.  Not our title.

Which is great.  And beautiful.  And all of that.

But back to my crisis.

My entire life, I have looked to My Career to be the focal point of my life, how I make my mark, prove myself, and become loved by millions.  Now that I'm realizing that all of that is pretty much an illusion, that there is no perfection, that anything one pursue's will be filled with drama and conflict if one is focused on Being Someone Important, instead of just doing what makes their heart sing.  

So now, I've lost my compass.  What do I do?  And I mean do, small 'd' not Do.  Or maybe I do mean Do.  Do I try to make a difference?  Do I focus on doing what makes me happy and brings me joy?  Do I focus on spending time with all the wonderful people in my life, while I have them in my life?

If I am not A Career, than what am I?
Okay, I'm going to throw up another one!  This little hairball is only slightly disturbing.  You may even enjoy it.  Who knows?  Stranger things have happened.

This is from Way Back When.  I took a creative writing class when I was wandering around lost, after being booted from acting.  This little ditty is all the way from 1997.  12 years ago, when I was a mere fawn of 21.

This, my dear reader, is merely a freewrite.  No editing has been put into it.  Truly, no thought has been put into it.  Which will soon become apparent.

It starts off with a given prompt:  "The bus driver became <blank> when he saw his bus leave without him".  3 words were given to insert into the blank.  What follows is the result...

The bus driver became stabilized when he saw his bus leave without him - driven by an eight year old.

It was going to be alright now.

A smile of relief spilled on George's face as he watched the bouncing "Do Not Pass When Red Lights Flash" sign floating away from him.  The sounds of the children's laughter grew faint.  George parked himself on a nearby rock, consoling himself with little Billy driving his bus load of friends into some dark ravine.  This made George laugh.

Pulling out his pack of Virginia Slims, he began plotting his next move.  The flowered cigarette between his thick fingers made him feel dainty.  He looked off through the smokey haze that encircled him, to the mountains.  There he would make a new home; there he would begin his life again.

Times had been hard.  He ha applied for every job possible- busser, receptionist, even at McDonalds.  But no one wanted poor 43 year-old George. 

Until he applied for the school  district.

He was a perfect candidate for the job!, they had said.  Benefits and everything.

As George recalled his first day on the job, he prayed that Billy did not know how to drive that goddamned bus. 
Ha HA!  I am back again!  This time with a COMPLETELY NEW idea.  Yes, shocking, that I can't actually stick to one blog theme.  I think every post I come up with some new theme.  

Now!  Now I am going to share with you some fiction, I think.  I could change my mind.  In fact, I'm certain I will.

But in the meantime, I will share this latest with you.

It is horrible.  It makes no sense.  It is bizarre.  And probably disturbing.

But, I was in a bad/weird/manic mood, and just began to write.  And this is what came forth.  Like sputum.

So, my apologies in advance, but here it is....

She slowly began peeling his skin off.  It was slightly crunchy on the edges, yet soft and wet through the middle.  She wasn’t quite sure what she was doing, but she knew she needed to be doing it.

He just laid there, barely moving.  She couldn’t stand it.  She couldn’t stand him.  The least he could to was whimper or cry.  But secretly he probably loved it, the mother fucker, I’ll show him.

She began barking at him.  Like a rabid dog.  In heat.

He loved this too, and began to smile.  The joy began tugging at the corners of his mouth.  He loved to see her suffer, to wiggle and writhe about.  It tickled the inner space between his heart and his ribs.  And it made him hungry.

So he began to eat her.  Slowly at first, with little nibbles.  Then, pretty soon, he began taking whole chunks from her flesh.  Pieces of her began to disappear.

She was disappearing. Into him.  Becoming one with his flesh.  Soon the two would become whole.  Part of her would be slipping away into the darkness, his wet darkness, swishing around in his stomach acid.  

And part of her would become enmeshed with his mind, with his soul.  She wanted to be his own personal encephalitis.  Oh god how she would love that.

He bit off her pinky.  She began to giggle.  Hysterically.  It made her tits wiggle, her flabby thighs and protruding belly.

He loved it, this reaction he was causing in her.  Soon the two of them began to make love, with her pieces scattered about his intestines, and her wholeness becoming one with his.  And his wholeness becoming one with hers.

They began disappearing into each other.  Their flesh growing sticking, merging together, bulging together.  The little cells, dead flakes of skin, boiling into a hot mess, all mergey and purvey.  
They were a roiling boil of flesh and teeth and hair and moans and screams.  Then a lump.  Then a bump.  And then only a bit.  And then merely a spot.  Pretty soon just a crumb.

And then they were no more.