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Creating Characters
Create a Family Tree!

Step One: Pick a name, including a first and last name. Male, female, twins - it doesn't matter. All that matters is that this person has a first and last name.

Step Two: Ask your CHARACTER - the one you just created a first and last name for - whether or not he or she has any siblings. This is where you might create a half-brother/half sister or a step-brother/step-sister or you might discover your character was adopted!

Step Three: Since no one is ever born at age thirty, there must have been some sort of parental unit for your character and, if applicable, siblings. Now, give those persons first and last names. If your initial character is illegitimate, this is where you could identify his/her mother/father. If he/she was raised by an uncle/aunt/grandmother/friend of the family, give that person(s) a name!

Step Four: Branch out as far as you want to go! Think about how your own family is structured. Is there a middle name that all first born males/females receive? Does every third child in the family carry the maternal grandmother's maiden name? Did someone in your family marry someone with a different ethnic background and give those children names that match their heritage rather than the core family?

Step 5: As you're doing this, jot down anything that comes to mind about any of the names appearing on your family-tree chart. Was Uncle a miser? Did Grandma have a heart of gold but was a terrible cook? Did someone's sister run-off and have a child with a man she refuses to name? Is your cousin gay? Is one branch of the family happy and poor? Is another branch rich and miserable? Is there an ambitious family member conspiring to take the family fortune? What would happen if distant cousins united to take on the family patriarch for control of the family coffers/land?

What you're doing is providing yourself with, not only a comprehensive look at your character's backstory, but invaluable information about how your character 'ticks'. You have the basis for daddy-issues, mommy-issues, inter-racial relationships, family drama, sibling rivalry, cousin-to-cousin rivalry - so much juicy stuff! Not only that, but you'll have characters to draw on should you find that you've written yourself into a corner, need someone your character can trust or someone to betray your character - so many possibilities!

But don't keep this to yourself!

Share it with us! We'll post it here and on the Blog!

3/19/10: You Have 5 Messages, Part 2 of 2

You've played back your messages. You know - or don't know - why these people called you.

Now, it's time to find out.

Of the five messages on your answering machine, 'play back' the third message. Listen to it carefully.

Now - write that message from the POV of the person who left it for you.

You have the 'what' - a message left for you. Now, write the 'who', 'where', 'when' and 'how come' - without using those specific words.

This second part can be as short or as long as you want. It can be whimsical, fantastic, erotic, realistic, comedic, horrific or any variation thereof. Also, if you'd like to build off of one of the submitted messages, go ahead and write it!

Send it to us! We'll post it on the blog and on the FRONT PAGE of the website!

3/05/10: You Have 5 Messages: Part 1 of 2
You walk in and you drop your coat in its usual spot - just like you've done a hundred times. And, just like you've done another hundred times, you check your answering machine. The number '5' flashes repeatedly.

You press 'play'.

Write those five messages.

Messages can be realistic, whimsical, literal, figurative, humorous, sexy, suggestive - anything at all. The important thing is to write them down!

This part of a two-part exercise is to look at brainstorming from a completely different point of view.

Don't forget - we'll post 'your messages' on our website and blog so don't forget to send them to us!

R E S P O N S E S ! ! !

5 Messages on My Answering Machine: Strider’s Submission

I couldn't believe this day. Two presentations due today, boss breathing down my neck, car broken down in the goddamn traffic, and four--count 'em four—hours in the mechanic's waiting room watching game shows and soap operas because I didn't think to even bring my laptop to work. Why would I—I have a computer at work. But I never got to work, because of the car, and now the boss was pissed and I was sure, just freaking positive, that my new clients were going to bail.

Now the kids would be home from school in about five minutes and I had no idea what I was supposed to make for dinner. I'd say let's just go out for once, but I didn't know if I could handle the little monsters eating sugar from the packets and crawling under the table.

I threw my keys angrily on the table, tossed my purse in a kitchen chair, hit the button on the answering machine and went to stand in front of the refrigerator. I don't know why. Maybe something would jump out and say, “Me! Cook me for dinner!”

--- This is Citifinancial calling about an important business matter. Please return our call at...

Yeah, yeah, I know. I'll pay the damn mortgage when I get paid, assuming after today I still have a job.

--- Hey, yeah, Jill, this is...well, you know. I know you told me never to call you at home, because of the kids and all...but you left your...um...you know. It's in my...um, where we were. If you don't get it, I'll have to throw it away, because I can't be...well, just get get it, okay? Don't call me; I'll just leave it at the usual place tonight. Bye. Oh, will I still see you over lunch tomorrow? Okay, bye.

Oh crap. I glanced at the clock. The kids were probably walking down the block right now. How dare he call me here?

--- Hello, Mrs. James. This is Ethel Burnside from Burnside, Burnside, and Burnside. I'm pleased to inform you that the judge has granted our request to expedite your motion due to the flight risk your husband poses. He has ordered all your husband's assets frozen immediately, pending the review of the divorce decree and the FBI's investigation. I'm hoping to have some of those funds released to you within ninety days, but that will depend on whether your husband appeals the judge's decision. Please return my call by the end of the day...

Ex-husband, Ethel, I thought to myself. Ex-husband. I don't care if it's not totally official yet. I sighed. Nothing seemed to be presenting itself from the fridge as an obvious candidate for dinner.

--- Goddamn it, Jill, I can't believe you're doing this. You know I never embezzled any damn thing in my life. And even if I did, was it my fault you had to have new cars every two years and a new fancy house? How's a man supposed to keep up with a gold digger like you? You'll pay for this, Jill, I swear to God, and then you and the kids will have nothing. Not a goddamn thing. Is that what you want? You'll never find it all, anyway, you stupid bitch. It's all in Kelli's accounts where nobody can touch it. How do you like them apples? I'm serious, Jill--

The machine cut him off. Thank you, machine. My “new car” was a minivan that I bought used with my own paycheck after the second baby was born, and my “new fancy house” was a 3-bedroom bungalow within sight of the elementary school, so I could watch the kids walk home and made sure they got here safely. But yeah...I'm the gold digger. I made a mental note to call Ethel and play that message for her. I figured the judge would enjoy it, too.

--- Mommy...? Mommy, I don't feel good. The nurse said I could call you. Mommy, can I come home? Um...bye.

Tears sprang to my eyes. The kids had been plagued with stomach problems and headaches ever since this stuff with their father started last year. I walked to the front door, thinking I'd just go over there and get them, but they were already crossing our yard.

I ran out to meet them and pulled them into my arms. “Are you guys okay?”

“I threw up!” Josie announced proudly.

“It was gross,” Caleb added.

“I'm sure it was,” I said, kissing Josie on the forehead. “Do you feel better now?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Do we have cookies?”

“How about you guys get your homework done, then we'll go to McDonald's for dinner?”

“Yay!” Both kids swung their backpacks around and made a beeline for the house.

I didn't mind taking them out every now and then. I had a stop to make later, anyway.


You Have 5 Messages: Kim's Submission

Beta Kim turned in this exciting piece.

***

I trudge over to my circa 1982 answering machine. What can I say? I like vintage, and I don't trust a lot of today's technology. Have you seen the new Battlestar Galactica?

I press the 'Play' button, and the tape squeals as it rewinds to the beginning of the five messages. It shutters to a halt, and I once again say a little prayer to the electronic gods that the tape holds. I have no idea where I'll find a replacement, once the thing finally goes kaput.

The first message begins with a Beep!

"I swear! You never answer your phone!" My mother's voice instantly causes my back teeth to grind against one another. "Are you there?"

A pause.

"Hello??"

Another pause.

"Pick up the phone."

One last pause.

"OK, I guess you're not there, or you're screening your calls, like usual."

The nerve in the outside corner of my eye begins to twitch as my irritation increases.

"Anyway, this is your mother..."

No shit! Really?

"... you could call me once in awhile you know. For all you know, I could've slipped in the tub and hit my head and no one would ever know."

Great. Lay on the guilt, Mom.

"Well, call me. And, don't forget this week's Ash Wednesday. You know, going to Mass wouldn't kill you."

Ugh.

"Love you. Bye.""

I sigh in frustration as the machine Beeps! to the second message.

"Hello, Ms. Willy,..."

"It's Wylie - WHY-LEE!!" I snarl at the phone.

"... I wanted to tell you about our special offer at the Registrar this week. For this week only, you can get a subscription at half of the regular subscription price..."

Good, God! Does this ever work on anyone????

"... In addition to the weekly paper, you'll get our special Sunday edition, plus..."

I don't bother to hear what else I'll get with this special offer. Instead, I push the 'Erase' button, and the tape quickly queues to the next Beep! Message three begins to play.

...

Except, there's no message.

There's just silence. Well, not silence exactly. There's an odd scratching noise in the background, or maybe it's just the sound the tape makes after having umpteen thousands of messages recorded and re-recorded over it. The call ends and the tape moves to the next Beep!

...

Another empty message. But again, not empty. The scratching noise is still in the background. And, now that I'm listening closer, I also hear a soft, rhythmic Thwump... thwump... thwump...

This mystery message is shorter than the first one, but after the message from mother, the one from the telemarketer, and the first blank message - I have moved beyond irritated and am verging on pissed. I don't know who is prank calling me, but I envision a couple of thirteen-year old boys snickering madly as they try to work up enough courage to leave a message to see if my refrigerator's running.

I take a deep breath and begin to rub the pads of my index and middle fingers in a circular motion, as I try to get the eye twitch (which is now in full twitch-mode) to stop. A final Beep! signals the beginning of the last message.

"Miss Wylie," a man's voice rumbles softly from the machine. I don't recognize the voice, but he got my name right. So far, I'm impressed.

"You are a very difficult woman to get a hold of. In fact, I believe you're the only woman in San Diego county that doesn't own a cell phone."

Yeah, and have the government be able to track me wherever I go??? No thank you, very much!

"You're in grave danger."

Is this a joke???

"This is not a joke. Remove this tape and go directly to 515 13th Avenue. You'll be given further instructions at that time. 515 13th Avenue," he repeats.

What kind of whack-a-do leaves a prank message like this?! I'm about to hit the 'Erase' button, when the man's voice continues.

"You don't have much time. Someone will be at your door shortly. Trust me when I tell you this is someone you absolutely do not want to meet."

Yeah, right. I don't recall the last time anyone came to my door other than the pizza delivery guy.

A Knock! Knock! Knock! on the door sets my heart racing as I glare at the answering machine as if it could be to blame.

"Take the tape and exit out the back door. Now!"

The man's voice cuts off as the knocking -- this time more insistent -- resumes.

Every nerve is on alert and I make the decision right then. I have no idea who the guy on the tape is, but the person now pounding on my door doesn't sound like a pizza delivery boy. I fumble the small tape out of the answering machine, grab my wallet off the front entry table and dash down the hall towards the kitchen. I reach the back door and wrench it open just as I hear the crashing sound of my front door splintering.

Without a second thought, I leap down the back porch steps and dash out into the eerily dark woods that border the back edge of my property.



You Have 5 Messages: Maria's Submission

Miss Maria crafted something extraordinary.

***

I bend over and squint at the keyhole, nose scrunching and teeth peeling in the process. It was there, wasn’t it? Yes, I could still see it; the blurry little jagged tease.

“Stay put, damn it!” I say, pointing a demanding finger at it as I begin to straighten myself up. My ankles wobble in my leather calf-length boots and I swing my arms out to catch my balance. The ground keeps shifting beneath my feet and I’m just certain that soon I’ll hit the floor and scrape my knees again just like I did when I got out of that cab downstairs. Stupid driver – didn’t he know he had to stop the car to let passengers out?

“That’ll be fifty dollars. The extra charge is for the stench you’re leaving in the backseat,” he’d said after I’d gotten up off the ground.

“It’s called Channel No. 5!” I snapped, feeling tiny specs of my own spit fall on my chin. I rummaged in my purse for some change, but all the old guys on the bills were looking remarkably alike. I grabbed one with a picture of a bloated guy that looked like he might’ve been around fifty and passed it to the driver through the window.

“No, darling,” he said as he took the bill from my hand. “I believe it’s called Jack Daniels and it looks like you’ve had more than five.”

Idiot. Jack Daniels was an alcoholic beverage not a perfume. No wonder he drove a cab, he knew absolutely nothing.

The long narrow corridor sways around me and I feel like I’m on a boat, dipping constantly into rough waters, then pulling back up and then dipping again. I lift one foot and feel the floor sink further and further as I try to set it back down again. My sole hits hard ground and I can hear my keys jingling as I wave my arms frantically around me. I feel both feet flat on the floor again and even though the corridor still sways, I’ve not fallen, which is what counts as a winning point here.

“I’m good!”I yell, distantly aware that there’s no one around listening, but even so I reiterate, “I’m good!”

I drive my right hand, with the key still in it, towards the keyhole again. This small movement feels as though I’m still on that boat, except that now it’s tipping over and I’m falling forward. Just before my body collides with the door I put my left hand out and land on it instead of my face. Meanwhile, my right goes out of control and I end up etching a deep gray scratch on the door with the key.

“Shit,” I mutter. I know it’s bad because I can see it clearly even through my blurry vision. All I can think of now is that Mr. Burnton will have me out of this apartment if he sees the deep gash I’ve made on the door before I can get to it. He liked to overreact, that Mr. Burnton. He threw such a hissy fit that time I accidentally set the stove on fire and had everyone in the building evacuated when the fire alarms went off.

“Note to self,” I say, and I realize for the first time tonight that my tongue is heavy and not curling properly on the right words. “Buy white…buy white out. Fix door!”

I press my face to the cool surface of the door and close my eyes. If only the world would stop spinning so quickly, just for a second, so that I could get my damned door open!

This feels oddly comfortable, I think as I lay there pressed to the door. The struggle to stay upright fades away, and a lulling feeling courses through me, like that of someone pulling a soft, warm blanket over me. Then I find myself wondering what the possibilities of falling asleep standing right outside my door are.

No, open your eyes, Rox, you can’t stay out here all night, I hear that voice that’s been relentlessly talking sense to me all night say and for the first time I obey it. I open my eyes and something twinkles on my left hand which is still pressed to the door beside my head. My stomach then stirs uncomfortably. The other voices in my head think it’s now okay for them all to talk at once and they begin to say words, names, and phrases that pull back up out of the alcoholic oblivion things that I’ve been trying to forget all night.

“SHHH!” I say loudly and over my shoulder, as if these voices belong to people who are standing right behind me.

Just then I hear the distant sounds of keys jingling and I look at my own set of keys in my hand. There’s a soft thud to my right and I look up to see a small round figure emerging from the corridor. As it comes closer, I hear stumpy footsteps on the tiled floor and I start to define the shape better. I see short bouncy curls around a little head, a silk navy blue dress with cuffed sleeves and little white flowers printed on it. There’s a white belt going all the way around the round stomach, making no definition at all but instead accentuating just how round her belly is.

“Mrs. Horndog!” I exclaim throwing my arms out with flair, which causes my feet to wobble again. “So good to see you! How’s little Muffin?”

Mrs. Horndog doesn’t respond, even as she passes me by. I see the deep furrow of her thin eyebrows clearer, and the way she turns her aged but stern eyes darkly up at me. Her thin lips in rose colored lipstick form a straight line and I get the distinct feeling that she’s angry with me. Dazed, I start wondering what I’ve done to make her mad. I say “Good morning” when I see her watering her petunias on her balcony, and I always make a point of scratching Muffin behind his ears when he scuttles past my shins. What could she possibly have against me?

Indignation fills me. Mrs. Horndog has no good reason for not liking me. She’s probably just jealous that I’m much younger and prettier than she is, that my breasts don’t hang down to my waist, that my legs are longer and that I have no need to die my hair every two weeks.

As her figure begins to shrink down the opposite end of the corridor, I stick my tongue out at her.

“Who needs you anyway?” I yell, swinging my arm out making my keys jingle, reminding me that I still have not managed to get my door open.

“Oh crap!” I exclaim, staring at the keys in my hand. I turn hastily in Mrs. Horndog’s direction but my feet tangle up beneath me, and I roll forward and land on my hands and knees.

“Mrs. Horndog, help!”

I try to disentangle myself by pulling one leg forward. As I do this, I suddenly feel more breeze around my thighs and privates than I have all night. I try to push myself off the floor, with one hand now on my knee for support, but instead I roll back, my boot’s heel sliding on the smooth waxed floor and I fall flat on my ass.

“Mrs. Horndog, please!” I cry with both my legs extended out in front of me, arms limp at my sides in defeat, and tears welling up in my eyes.

Her stumpy little feet stop their sound and then I hear them again, faster this time, getting louder and louder as they come nearer. Soon Mrs. Horndog is standing formidably above me and I suddenly feel like a little kid in a school playground about to be reprimanded instead of soothed by her Headmistress.

“You should be ashamed of yourself!” She says reaching down and grabbing me by my upper arm. She pulls me up directly, with little to no strain and I am secretly amazed at how strong this little old woman is. “Never in my day!” she continues. “If a young lady was ever found in this state back then she would’ve been shunned from society completely!”

I’m on my feet now and the hallway is still spinning, but Mrs. Horndog has got such a firm grip on me that for the first time all night I’m not worried about falling over again. She yanks the keys out of my hands, rams one into the keyhole, turns it and the door swings open. Considering how long I’ve been struggling just to get the key in the keyhole, this seems almost like magic to me.

“How did you do that?” I ask in awe, gazing at the door as she leads me in. I can feel the sharp tips of her fingernails begin to dig lightly into my bicep before she lets go and I turn to face her.

“This is the last time – do you hear me? – the last time I help you get into your apartment!” She screeches in a volume bigger than her size. “The next time I find you out here in this condition I’m leaving you to sleep out on the hallway floor! Now go take a cold shower and go to sleep!”

Suddenly, overwhelmed with emotion by her reluctant generosity, I cry, “Oh thank you!” And I throw my arms over her tiny frame. I feel her buckle for a second and even though she grows quiet I never feel her wrap her arms around me. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Horndog! I’ll make it up to you I promise!”

I feel the soft muscles on her back stiffen beneath my embrace. Then, out of nowhere, her screechy voice is bellowing in my ear, “AND FOR THE LAST TIME – MY NAME IS HORENBOG!”

She wriggles out of my arms, shakes me off like a battalion of pecking pigeons, turns away and slams my door behind her. I gasp. The gall of that woman! To yell at me and slam my door!

“HEY!” I say to the door. “Don’t you know it’s rude to slam other people’s doors? Don’t you have any manners! Coming into my house uninvited, slamming my door! How would you like it if I went to your place and did the same?”

When the door doesn’t respond, I wave my hand at it offhandedly, almost instantly forgetting what it was I was yelling about. I then stumble further into my apartment, taking slow steps through the familiar kitchenette, hands fumbling on the countertops for support. I open the fridge and pull out a bottle of Grey Goose that I started two nights ago. After I unscrew the cap I bring the tip of the bottle to my lips and clumsily make my way into the living room area.

Once there, I crash unto the white loveseat, tugging at the strap of my handbag, pulling it off my shoulder and resting it on the cushion beside me. Then I place the bottle of Grey Goose on the floor, by the leg of the couch. The apartment is in semi-darkness except for a sheet of luminescent moonlight that’s pouring in through the sliding glass doors of the balcony. The only lights on inside belong to the router, a bright fluorescent green that practically lights up the whole corner where it sits; and the blinking red light of the answering machine, which sits on a small kiln-dried birch table beside the white loveseat. I feel around the machine for the right button, until I finally find it and I press it. I’ve done this in this ‘state’ before, as Mrs. Horenbog would say; I already know it’s the third one from the right.

“You have five messages,” the monotone lady’s voice says to me and I mock it contemptuously. I lean forward during the first beep and pull the zipper on the side of one of my boots down.

“Rox?” comes a mousy voice from the speaker. Then with more confidence she proceeds, “Are you alright? You haven’t been in to work for the last two days and I’m getting worried. Mr. Mellencamp has asked about you but I told him you said you’d caught the flu, so don’t worry about that. Still, I think if you don’t show up or call by Monday he’ll get suspicious. Is everything alright? I didn’t call you last night because I was swamped and I fell asleep with my head on the keyboard. I had a whole screen full of g’s this morning when I woke up. Anyway, Fanny’s going around saying...things. Not that I believe any of them. She’s only doing it so that Mellencamp will give her your pieces to write, you know how she is. The conniving little slut. I just wish I had some back-up so that I could shut her up. I hate that she talks like she knows something. I’ve tried to ask David if he knows anything but he just shrugs me off. Rox, please call me and let me know what’s going on before I throw myself at Fanny and scratch her eyes out with my fingernails. Okay, bye!”

My stomach turns nauseatingly and I groan. I knew that I should’ve called in sick to work, but I’m such a terrible liar! In the end I’d found it easier to not call than to have to compulsively give Mr. Mellencamp the gory details of my hangover. My bad lying skills are the reason I’m sitting here with a bottle of Grey Goose, avoiding everyone I know, including poor Lizzie who was now having to cover up for me at work. I should definitely call her and explain. In the morning. Maybe.

There’s a second beep and a nagging female voice bursts through. “For Christ’s sake, Roxanne Arlington! Are you screening my calls again? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for the last two days! I heard about Carey. Yeah, news travels fast – welcome to the 21st century. Don’t worry, mom and dad don’t know yet; you can hand that little jewel to them yourself. And you better hurry up before they hear it from someone else! Honestly, I can’t say that I’m surprised, but – well, don’t ask me right now what I think! I’d rather have you on the phone when we discuss this. I’m sorry, Roxy, but you can’t just hide away from the world. Call me before you make me travel halfway across the country to find you! My schedule is hectic so think of how badly you’ll be inconveniencing me!”

“I’m fine!” I yell at the machine. “Can’t you see I’ve been having a good time? I just came from two parties!” I say holding two fingers up at the machine before turning back fumingly to tug at my boot. “And I would quicker call Jack the Ripper to talk about anything than you!”

I finish pulling my boot off my foot and I fling it across the room. My chest is tight now and I feel even more nauseated than before. I’d had such a fantastic time. For about six hours I had thought about nothing stressful; just music, booze and laughter. Why does Layla have to go sounding so reprimanding? Leave it to her to bring my spirits down. She makes me feel like a little kid being dragged home by her ear after staying too long on the playground when she knew she had homework to do.

I lean over glowering and begin to unzip the second boot when the third beep comes. “Hey Rox, it’s Carey.” My ears perk up and I suddenly feel much more focused than I have all night. I listen intently, grasping my boot tightly with both hands, my heart pumping intoxicated blood as fast as it can. “I got your messages. All of them. Including the one where you called me David.”

I feel myself grow instantly cold. I called him David? Oh good God! How could I? How many times had I called him? Why couldn’t I remember any of it? What on earth had I said?

“You probably don’t even remember, do you? And no, that doesn’t excuse you, Rox, nor does thirty-four messages on my answering machine make anything better…there’s nothing that can possibly make this better… I can’t…it’s just too much and…” He pauses and then exhales loudly, despondently. “I need you to stop calling me…if you care at all…if what we had meant anything to you at all then please stop calling me. You’re only making things harder. Just do this one last thing for me. Take care of yourself…goodbye.”

“Oh, David, I’m so sorry!” I burst, letting go of my boot and covering my face with my hands. “I never meant to—”

I catch myself and before I can finish my sentence a snort rises up my throat and my shoulders begin to shake with hilarity as I being to cackle. “I did it again! I called him David again!”

I realize that I’m laughing harder than I have in two days. My laughter is irrepressible, and I feel deep inside me that this is wrong, but I can’t stop. The tears that had been forming in my eyes before come out now, but they’re no longer tears of sadness. I’m laughing so hard that I can’t sit up straight any longer and I start to slowly sink sideways into the couch.

“I can’t believe I called him David again!” I say, somewhat gaining control of my chortle while I stare up at the swirling ceiling above me. “Oh God, what the hell is wrong with me?”

I continue to giggle softly to myself as the machine emits a fourth beep.

“Hi, this is Crystal from Stencil Creations calling to inform you that the two hundred invitations for the McDermott-Arlington wedding are ready. You can come and pick them up between 9am and 6pm or if you prefer we can have them delivered. If so please give us a call and we’ll mail them right to you free of charge. Thank you for choosing Stencil Creations and on behalf of our team we’d like to wish you much happiness on your upcoming wedding!”

The laughter dies in my chest almost instantly, leaving in its place a dull pain. There’s a tight knot where my heart is located that tightens itself more and more with each passing second. My smile slowly fades away leaving behind a shadow of shameful joy. Although the voices in my head have all remained silent, I sense that it’s simply a silence of mourning. My throat closes up, my nose tingles and tears spring to my eyes as I hear Crystal’s voice echoing in the drunken depths of my mind, “The two hundred invitations for the McDermott-Arlington wedding are ready…”

Soon Veronica Pang Designs would be calling me for dress fittings. And the Gardenia Country Club would call asking about the second half of the deposit and on what dates would we start setting up. Aunts would soon begin to enquire about what they should wear, what colors, would they match would they clash, what hairstyles they should get done; uncles would be sending their old tuxes to the drycleaners, have their wives buy them a new tie. The jewelry shop would also notify us that the rings had been engraved; our initials (RA & CM) inscribed along with the date on the inside of our white gold wedding bands. Other guests would ask where we were registered for gifts and what objects on our list would I most like to have, because it’s always the bride that cares more for the gifts…

It was just too much. Too many cancellations. Too many endings all spliced together. Too many shocked faces. Too many questions I didn’t want to answer. How was I supposed to go through with cancelling our wedding when I couldn’t even bring myself to take my engagement ring off? Funny how only days ago I’d been thinking about all these errands in a much different light, with a smile on my face and an exalting jolt in my heart. A week ago they hadn’t been ends; they’d been beginnings, all lined up like small stepping stones leading up to the great over-anticipated plunge at the end.

I feel a tear run down the corner of my eye and I quickly rush my hand to it to wipe it away, as if it is demeaning to cry even when I’m completely by myself.

If only I hadn’t been so stupid! If only I had thought things through! If only I hadn’t let myself get carried away! If only, if only! Wedding jitters was all it had been. Nothing had been more exciting and suffocating both at the same time than being engaged to marry Carey McDermott. I was in love with him and he doted on me. He was so perfect in every way, it was only logical that I should say yes; that I should marry him. Wasn’t everyone always telling me to be more reasonable? To use my brain? We would’ve been so happy…if only I hadn’t screwed things up so badly!

I sit up straight with a jolt of determination flowing wildly through me. I have to get him back. Somehow, I have to make him understand I made a mistake; that three years should not be thrown away because of one night where I completely lost my self-control. Yes, he’d have to understand. He still loves me, I am sure of it! One does not stop loving someone else overnight!

Forget what he said about not calling him again. I have to talk to him now. I have to explain that I’ve figured it out, that I’ve never stopped loving him, that our love deserves a second chance. The wedding won’t need to be cancelled. No one needs to know what happened. It’ll be like nothing ever happened!

I reach out for the cordless phone just as a fifth beep breaks through my thoughts.

“Roxanne, are you there? Pick up if you’re home…please?” This fifth voice brings a spasm to my stomach. I listen with tense nerves, quickly retracting my hand as if even being near the answering machine when this voice is speaking is bad. The voice goes silent for a moment as he waits to see if I pick up and then I hear him again. “Well, I guess you’re not going to answer, even if you are there. So I guess…I just wanted to say that I know Carey found out and I’m sorry.”

There’s a long pause. Such a long pause that for a moment I think something has happened to the machine. Then his voice comes through again, fiercer, more determined and my heart skips several anxious beats.

“No – you know what? I’m not sorry, Rox, I want you. I want you more than I’ve wanted anyone in a long time. I want you just as you are; crazy, reckless, irresponsible…all those things he wanted to change about you. I’m glad that he found out, and I don’t care how wrong that sounds. I need to see you, Rox, I—”

He falls silent once more but this time his silence is filled with the distant sound of wailing sirens. Then he resumes, “Shit, the cops just caught me talking on the cell. I gotta pull over. Please call me. Bye.”

My eyes are wide and the room has stopped going in circles by the time the answering machine calls out, “End of messages.” My pulse quickens as I process that last message, feeling suddenly more awake and alert than I have in hours. His words ring in my foggy mind, and I find that I’m fighting a rush I don’t want to feel. This rush belongs to Carey. Not to him. Not David.

It’s just the alcohol talking, don’t listen to it, says that voice in my head again. Yes, it has to be. I’m in love with Carey…this is just some sort of silly…

Before I can even finish that thought another voice whispers, softly from behind the echo of that main, louder voice, David has been your friend for so long…David has always been there…David who one week ago to this day took you in his arms and made you feel things Carey—

“Stop!” I yell, bringing my hands to my ears. “I mustn’t think about it! Please, stop!”

The voices cease and I look around me warily, slowly bringing my hands back down. I take a few deep breaths and close my eyes trying to regain control of my nerves. I reach down and pick up the bottle of Grey Goose and drink in big gulps that burn my throat. I know it’s wrong, something tells me it’s wrong, but I can’t stop. I have to forget. I can’t think about any of it now.

I rest the bottle between my legs and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. All the messages are swirling in my head now, each correlating into the other and they become the voices that now speak to me once more. Five messages all wanting something from me, answers, replies, actions…all asking for a piece of me which I cannot give.

I look over at the clock sitting right beside the phone and it reads 5:30 am. But instead of really looking at the time I gaze at the pictures of Mickey and Minnie Mouse on its backdrop – a souvenir that a good friend once brought me back from Disney World when I’d started feeling stifled. He’d said it was to remind me that life doesn’t need to be a list of responsibilities, that one mustn’t forget to live, and that escapism is only one deep breath away…so long as the priorities are in order.

With these thoughts, and the Grey Goose, easing my mind I reach over, pick up the cordless phone and begin to dial. There are four people expecting a call back, the fifth wished never to hear from me again, and I am sitting in the dark at 5:30 in the morning suddenly needing to talk.

There is only one person on that list who won’t mind if I call now.

1/05/10: I Don't Wanna Work
We've all been there: we wake up, we go about starting our day and some way or another, that *feeling* creeps to the fore-front of our minds. It gets us to the phone, with the handset in our palms. And, that's as far as we get. Why? You know why. It's because we haven't mentally rehearsed what we're going to tell the person on the other end of line as to why we're not coming to work today.

You mission: write that excuse! It can be funny, sad, dramatic, over-the-top, sexy, poignant, timely, etc.

Write it. Send it to us. We'll post it on the blog AND the website!

Come on, all you writers! Tell us why you don't want to go to work today!