adrift in a sea of fiction

Spinning Fiber: Rochelle (Part 2)

Tracy M. Williams — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 05:55:00 GMT

It was a teaching hospital, Rochelle reminded herself. And the intern wasn’t much older than she herself was. Why else would a reasonable, educated person compare an overdue baby to a rotting apple? As the door closed behind the doctor, Rochelle sat stunned.

“I hope he chooses another discipline,” Jamie said. “He does not have the tact for obstetrics.”

“He was just being helpful,” Rochelle said as she pulled on her clothes, but she couldn’t get the image out of her head.

Two weeks overdue was the limit, he’d said. After that, the baby started to decompose in much the same way an overripe apple would.

“He wasn’t being helpful, Rochelle,” Jamie said. “He was being a man. Now, come on, let’s go set up that appointment. You have a daughter to meet.”

Rochelle expected a wait. When the appointment was settled for five o’clock the next morning, she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. What woman could sleep knowing she had a rotting person in her womb?

At four-thirty the next morning, she was wide awake and waiting for Jamie to drag herself out of the shower. Jamie shuffled into the living room wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. She’d combed her dark hair and left it to drip dry.

“This freaking hospital,” Jamie said, yawning. “Better come equipped with a full-service Starbucks. That’s all I’m saying.”

State Bird of Lucie: Part 1

Tracy M. Williams — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 18:32:00 GMT

The State Bird of Lucie

The last thing Lucie wanted to do on Thanksgiving Day was stand outside the diner dressed in a chicken suit. Money’s money, though, and Lucie would do just about anything to get away from her stepmother and stepsisters—even if it meant abject humiliation. The warehouse still needed a new heating and air conditioning unit as well as updated plumbing before she could move in.

Two more townspeople passed her on their way into the diner.

“Gobble, gobble,” Lucie said, as instructed.

They guffawed, and Lucie closed her eyes. Remember your goal, she thought. Humiliation plus chicken suit equals freedom.

Besides, it was better to be on the sidewalk than inside with the pyro twins, Max and Mindy. Her two stepsisters had burnt down every house they’d ever lived in—by accident, according to the county arson inspector. Lucie was six the first time it happened. They had been twelve, then, and determined to make Fried Chicken from a recipe they found in one of their mother’s cookbooks. After the third attempt, Angela forbade them to fry anything again.

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Tracy M. Williams — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 14:40:00 GMT

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Spinning Fiber: Rochelle

Tracy M. Williams — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 13:05:00 GMT

Spinning Fiber: Rochelle

Rochelle enjoyed thunderstorms. She liked the sound of the rain pattering against the tin roof. The rattling of the window panes set her heart to racing. The crack of thunder sent a thrill of fear shooting through her body.

She lay awake in her bed, stroking her swollen belly. A shiver of light from beneath the bedroom door allowed her to glimpse the buttons on the ceiling tiles. Rochelle’s cousin, Jamie, hated thunder and tended to sit up until her sleeping pills took effect.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the room for an instant. Rochelle counted the seconds until she heard the thunder. One…two…three—crack! Three. The storm was getting closer. Rochelle stared out her window at the night sky. Everything was dark. The clouds obliterated the stars and the moon. The light in the living room switched off, leaving Rochelle in the dark.

Lightning flashed again. Rain streaked down the window panes. With the windows closed against the rain, the air had grown stifling. Her body, heavy with the weight of her baby, was hot and restless. Rochelle climbed out of bed.

For as long as she could remember, storms had held a fascination for Rochelle. She didn’t cower beneath an overhang when it rained. She walked out into the middle of it, her arms open wide, her face raised to the sky. She spun in circles, jumped in puddles. She felt cleaner in the rain. She felt more in control. Nothing, and no one, could touch her in the rain. No one followed her. They would yell at her, call to her to come in, from the protection of the porch or a window—but they wouldn’t follow her.

She stepped out, onto the front porch, and closed the door behind her. The storm was louder, drowning out the thoughts in her head. The baby was two weeks past due, and she showed no signs of leaving her haven. The spring had been unusually warm this year. The humidity under the porch roof was cloying. The thin cotton nightgown stuck to her.

Rochelle stepped off the porch. The rain pelted her head. She raised her hands to her face, slicking the water into her hair. The nightgown molded against her body as the rain soaked her. She laughed with pure joy.

Welcome

Tracy M. Williams — Sun, 19 Jul 2009 03:09:21 GMT

Welcome to my blog. Please check back soon for new entries.