Queenie and Rosco’s Gift

Sneak Peek into my young adult Novel:


Anna’s Journal
I was alone when I found her journal. The girls had left in search of sandwiches when I found it. There are certain things that are just hard to find when you travel abroad, Sandwiches being one of them-and maybe Pizza.  I wanted pizza now-delivered, gooey, shimmery with orange oil you must dab off, hot tangy slices that leave your lips glistening and cheese hanging dumbly off your mouth.  Pizza is actually junk food, which is why they went looking for sandwiches. I was hungry.   I could smell pizza in my daydream.  It’s not the same here-pizza, sandwiches either really. Take Tuna with Green Olive on a baguette.   I never found that option at the Deli. Oh and the Deli-it ain’t Subway, thank God. Once you travel, you expose your taste buds to new standards of flavor, you’re changed.  We had a big journey ahead which called for sustenance.  Helena, Anna, and Trysta left me alone with my migraine. They’re nurturing like that.  And-well….in my weakened state-I find it. I know excuses are lame.  There it was-   Poking it’s lamby soft leather head out from under the corner of the pillow as if it called out to me. “Laney….Psst.Laney, “ELAINE!, Only mom called me that…or teachers on the first day.   “Go on- peek in it like a bad friend.”    It was soft grey brown leather, embellished with a Celtic design. It’s secrets should’ve been safe inside. It had a strip of thin soft leather lacing with a button on the end to secure it’s pages shut. That really should have stopped me? In hindsight I never would have looked in Hellie’s or Trysta’s stuff.   I had known them too long. There were few mysteries left there. But Anna? In only ten months of knowing her, I hadn’t entirely figured her out, which for most people would be fine. Not me of course I was born to seek truths to understand what most never even thought to wonder about. Perhaps that is why I dreamed of being a journalist.

Peabody’s Rescue

And she stood alone at the edge of the cliff overlooking the drop off that had recently formed after heavy rains.  Her tears washed over her face until her whole body was sobbing.   She willed the world to swallow her into it.  It didn’t matter if she were here, of this earth,  one more day, she was invisible at this moment anyway, he didn’t want her any more and she didn’t know if she even wanted herself.    Clearly she had to decide if what he saw in her was perhaps more than she saw in her own self?    IF she were so selfish as to hurl herself into the unknown feeling, and sucessfully disconnect from the physical world-ripped from the people that gave her the gift of heartache, would that day that they trickled holy water over her head….would that moment prevail?   Like a grand shield, negating her decision, simply by having waved a hand, and calling her life “symbolic” Frankincense and Myrhh inciting her first sneeze.. ..” God”  seeping into her infant pores through her angelic white satin dress, would that be the clincher?   Is that what does it-a hand reaches out through the air, just before her heart is pierced by some metal debris jutting out.  Would this crevice instead cradle her in a hug as luck would have  it?  She’d felt other-worldly embraces before-that summer as a child, she swam in two confused angry torrents of undertow pulling her under…..”Deception Pass,” A red flag?  Eegads… this is true…. She would undoubtedly only puncture herself on the creamy skin of her face, her FACE….her best feature, and forever have to explain this awful puncture scar long after the bloody scabs had dropped away and the tears had dried and the twigs were removed from her hair-only her heart remaining forever bruised.   That is the story that could live inside her in shame?   How does one carry that secret with them? …..how would she tell that story- as luck would have it, she would indeed stay undiscovered for just enough time to realize she DID want to live and then some senior citizen dressed as if she were still middle aged in her designer matching sweat suit and pants in some unfathomable color like, turquoise, would come along with her perfectly manicured hands, matching her outfit, and her cloud of white toy poodle, whom she was just sharing the exquisite view with…she would be the one to find her!    That is how life works.   And  in her surprise she would have to befriend this woman who had  ”saved her”   whose surprise didn’t show on her face due to the success of her  many Botox sessions-robbing her of any expression.   She’d peer out over the oblivious eagles and grand rolling hills in the distance and happen upon my body, twisted in a heap of despair on that cliff side,  leaning over she’d say to me in that perfect Betty White sugary tone ” oh honey, why do you let boys DO that to you?

Cliff's Edge

Must Keep Going

From zero to 50,

my brain revs;

If it were under the hood of car

It would summon the Y Chromosomes

in any being,

hidden away,

where no one feels

it’s reverberations’

it aches to go faster, a high speed train

that lives in the upstairs of my body,

slowed by tainted fuel and rusty brakes;

out the window,

the scenery is moon glow and life dreams,

the canvas aches for paint,

“don’t you see those of massive rolling hills?.”

No time for fixes, why are there no brushes, no paint,

I must keep going and going and going and going.

The Junkyard

Sometimes those you love-

don’t hear you,

They sit before you,

You think of them,

As if yesterday were today,

The warmth of their lap,

still there;

Overalls, paint-stained and burly

“Breaker, Breaker 1-9, you got your ears on?


in my childhood

the Radio always on,

you who taught me to skip while running errands,

To smile at strangers,

So long as my little girl hand was nestled

in the grease stained calloused safety of yours.

I wished you fished and wore ties,

But instead you played us music,

Once you brought me flowers;

when the pills went down on a whim,

There was always music, our lives forever scored.

When you first came to be my father,

It was Elvis, then Peter, Paul and Mary,

Then it was the Beatles, the Kinks, then Chicago,

then the Beach Boys.

I wont forget the sound of your snarly, pissy bark

“how are you gonna do that?”

You’d say,

Then you’d swig from your red Coke can,

“Oh I WILL, if only to prove you wrong”

I hear your words still, “enough of your adult mouth”

These same words I now speak daily,

I smell the popcorn and tires at Sears when I think of you,

I see myself pretend surfing, standing up, age 7

While the old wheelbarrow red 68 VW bus sputters noisily along,

It looked noseless when the VW emblem would get pried off by “hoodlums,”

but it spawned adventure as we perused the junk yard,

the junk yard was eerie,

But, you taught me the healings of the Hail Mary

and the Bloody Mary

And on that cold December day,

when he died, you died too.

And you know me well enough to know

I hate Goodbye,

But if not for our trips to the junk yard

I may not be a poet today?

So much more…..

Perhaps it was displaced love….

The little glass figurines glued to paper

Were trapped too,

I’d play with them for hours,

But was never allowed to free their glass paws.

“Just leave them intact” -exactly as they came to you”

My mother would say,

Who says something free or old isn’t special?

They came from a greasy old gas station,

But someone lovingly brushed them with shades of grey and brown,

Wonder Together
Wonder Together

With a tiny paint brush,  they tended to their little eyes,

They belonged to the part of my mother I loved

The child inside her side;

If only I could free them both.