Good Things Come In Two's

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I would like to introduce you to my daughter's blog. She is seven years old and itching to share her art with the world. I have shared some of her pieces (along with her brothers) over the years and now she has a place to call her own. A place for her to express, to inspire, to feel proud. I know she would be tickled to have some followers (besides her mother).  Introducing...

Paper Magic Maker

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I love to write, rarely share, and never delve in fiction. My normal genre for reading and writing is non-fiction or poetry. Lately I have been back in the saddle of devouring fiction books and studying the art of fiction writing. Writing is something I have been in love with since I first put pencil to paper. It is also something I don't allow myself the time to do. From this day forward, I vow to allow myself time to write and the freedom to share.

I joined two amazing blogs to help me gain confidence, knowledge and practice in the art of writing. The blogs are The Magpie's Pen and The Red Dress Club. I am sharing a piece of my writing below. The prompt was given by The Red Dress Club and will be revealed in green at the end of the piece. Thanks for reading!

p.s. the piece is currently untitled.

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I can’t believe I made it to Friday. Getting through the past week has been a nightmare. Attending the funeral of my best friend last Saturday was the hardest thing I have done in my life. Cassie was young and beautiful and always so full of life. She was one of those free spirits who floated effortlessly through life. How could such a vibrant and inspiring young person be taken out so prematurely? It left me pondering some of life’s biggest questions.

What is the purpose of life? If Cassie, who was always helping people and had such a promising future could be taken out of the game of life so early, why am I still here? My life is boring, simple, monotonous. The parts that Cassie didn’t touch, that is.

How can life be so fragile? Cassie was here one minute larger than life, then gone in a mere instant, reduced to meager memories.

Perhaps the biggest question of all, how could anyone possibly think her fall from the window of her art studio be anything but an accident? Suicide? Cassie? No way! That’s the way the report was written and that’s the way it was confirmed. Suicide. Death by intentional fall.

The funeral was beautiful. Her favorite flower was lily-of-the-valley and the funeral parlor had placed gorgeous potted arrangements and cut flower bouquets everywhere. As loved ones walked in they were given a single sprig of lily-of-the-valley with a white satin ribbon tied around the stem. Encouragement was given to go up to a mic at the front of the visitation room and share memories of Cassie. The casket was closed due to the nature of her demise.

I had known Cassie for fifteen years. We met in fourth grade when she moved to our tiny Minnesota town from the warm and glamorous Los Angeles. She walked into the classroom so sure of herself. Not an ounce of fear in her. She was dark haired, sun tanned and had the most stylish clothes. Everyone in the classroom was whispering and pointing but Cassie just walked in, head held high, bright smile on her face and sat confidently in the only available chair, which as fate would have it  was directly in front of me.

Fifteen years of friendship. Fifteen years of girlish boy crushes and shared secrets to the more adult experiences of college and career. How could she be gone? More importantly, how was I supposed to function without her? She was the one who gave me confidence. She was the one who taught me to dream, to live life to the fullest. For the past week I have been left to wallow in loss and self-pity.  

This afternoon I arrived home from work and trudged out to the mailbox to retrieve today’s mail, most likely consisting of bills and junk mail. As I pulled the mail out of the box, I grabbed at the post the box is perched upon to keep from falling over. There was a pink postcard at the top of the stack of mail. It was addressed to me in curly, fancy writing. The “i”’s were topped with little hearts where dots were normally placed. There is only one person in my life with such happy and artistic penmanship. Cassie.

How could it be? Perhaps the suicide theory was correct as stated and this was her last goodbye. The card must have been lost in the mail. How else would it have taken so long to travel across town?

After gaining my balance and my emotional footing I flipped the postcard over. The back contained one simple sentence. “I'm not dead. Meet me tonight at Guido's Pizzeria. Tell no one.”

Overwhelmed with happiness I fled as fast as my stocky legs could carry me and burst through the front door heading straight to the counter to snatch up my purse and keys. I gleefully patted my cat Charlie on the head, slammed the front door and hopped into my VW bug. Reminding myself to drive the speed limit, I headed to the pizzeria.

Could it be? Could it really be? Cassie is alive? Boy does she have some major explaining to do!

Prompt: One week after attending the funeral of a close friend, you receive a postcard in the mail with the words, 'I'm not dead. Meet me tonight at Guido's Pizzeria. Tell no one.'