Since my last post, I've thought a lot about the content that I'm putting up here and I've come to a conclusion:
Total. Snooze. Fest.
Then I read a revelatory blog about praising people on social media sites without being generic (June 23rd post by Porter Anderson at
writerunboxed.com) and had a major DUH moment.
If I want to give people, readers, clients, etc an idea about me as a writer, shouldn't I be writing blog posts AS A F**KING WRITER???
(See? I told you it was a DUH moment.)
So, what am I supposed to do now? Share a story? Post some pictures of what inspires me?
I hear you shouting, "Story! Story!" (I really didn't hear anything. Well, maybe SIX voices shouting)
Okay, but just a quick, creepy one. (**disclaimer: this is a work of fiction** and **don't try this at home** and **these people are fictional**)
Reclamation
I shifted the shovel to my right hand and peeked over my shoulder again. There weren't any street lights in this neighborhood and clouds covered the silver fingernail moon. The darkness followed along as my steady and consuming accomplice. The whiskey I'd fortified my courage with still coated my throat, but did nothing to warm me. I guess when you're creeping into a cemetery to do what I was about to do, you don't get to be warm.
He shouldn't have gotten the stupid thing in the first place. We were done. I wanted no part of him, his life, or his future. But he did it anyway. Go fucking figure.
The street ended in a scraggly, vacant lot, the chain-link fence at its edge my only remaining barrier. Then trees and shadows until I saw the fresh mound of dirt.
I tossed the duffel bag full of tools over first, and then the shovel. Halfway up, my black pants got snagged and in the process of freeing myself, I felt the unmistakable burn of wire gouging into my calf. Awesome. On the way out, I'd have to make sure I left no DNA behind.
Of course, I doubted anyone would give a shit about some blood on a fence if I got caught. Nope. They'd have plenty of other stuff to talk about.
The cemetery wasn't creepy at all--quiet, peaceful, in the way only a place full of dead people could be, I guess. I was in the newest section, the one with the fancy etched-portrait gravestones surrounded by random memorabilia of the person underneath. Showy plastic flower arrangements danced in the wind, a chorus line winging me toward my goal.
And there it was. In the very back row, isolated from its neighbors and marked by a hump of dirt.
My ex-husband's final home.
If someone had been around to see my smile, I'm afraid of how they would've described it. On my face it weighed as much as I would estimate a million dollars in gold might weigh.
A tattoo. All of this because I was pissed off about the tattoo. Buzzed on Kentucky's finest, dressed in all black, and standing over a fresh grave was about as far removed from being in charge of snacks at the soccer tournament as I could've gotten. What can I say? I'd started a new chapter in my life after I'd finally grown tired of being Mrs. Keeps-Her-Mouth-Shut-And-Lets-Her-Husband-Abuse-Her-In-Every-Way-Possible. And no way in hell was I going to let him take that tattoo with him.
He'd said he wanted to get it to show me how much he still loved me. Even posted it online to make sure word got around to me that he'd done it. A cliche heart with my name scrolled across it. Like that was going to make all the other shit go away.
Nope. And as a final fuck you salute to every single connection between the two of us, I was taking that tattoo back.
I dropped the bag and the implements inside clanged together. A crowbar, my favorite chef's knife, and an empty pickle jar. The handle of the shovel whispered against the palm of my gardening gloves as I got into position.
"Hi, Christopher." He hated when I used his full name. "Don't worry, you won't feel a thing."
Well, there you are. A writerly post.
Satisfied?
I know I am.
