Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Emma Graham, Once Again

I have never laughed out loud so much during a book until now.

Cold Flat Junction is book two in Martha Grimes’s portrait-esque Emma Graham mystery series. It runs in direct conjunction with the first book, Hotel Paradise. Well, to be precise, just about a week or two in narrative time made up the difference. Therefore, twelve-year-old Emma Graham is still present and strong; decorated in her usual witty, stubborn and cheeky ways. She’s also still obsessing about a 40-years-past “accidental” drowning of a girl her age, as that was the mystery that led her from Hotel Paradise and into its somewhat conclusion in Cold Flat Junction. Tack in another, recent murder (that was also introduced in Hotel Paradise), and Emma is on her Nancy Drew-ish way. Let her tell it, but nobody can convince her that the two murders are not connected.

As always, Emma employs her quick-witted wordsmith abilities to elicit the help of several residents of her town to assist her in her investigation. Dwayne Hayden, the auto mechanic and squirrel poacher, has a shotgun handy; therefore, he’s in top order for Emma to maneuver into bodyguard status. Sheriff Dehgan, Emma’s under-recognized mentor, is back and a little more distant from Emma. This distance worries her, but the truth is that she’s the one keeping secrets (some of those secrets are criminal offenses like obstruction of justice). The eccentric back wood-dweller, Mr. Root, is back to uselessly guide Emma through places she doesn't belong. And on a softer, funnier note, Mrs. Bertha is still complaining about Emma’s ability to be a good Hotel Paradise waitress and cook. Oh, and I couldn’t forget to mention Aunt Aurora, who resides in the fourth floor of the Hotel Paradise. Per standards, Emma continues to pump information out of the irate old lady with a mix of alcoholic drinks used to loosen her mean but venerable tongue.

Ah, I love this atmospheric town and its cast of bright, vivid characters.

Emma pulls hardly any stops as she sets on her quest to find the answers related to the two murders that surround the Hotel Paradise and its history. Hedged with the awareness that she require adults to help her along the way, you can’t help but to admire her captivating charm (as a reader as well as for the supporting characters). However, behind all of that charm and wit, you may also feel the loneliness she emanates. Nonetheless, where Hotel Paradise left matters on somewhat of a cliff-hanger, Cold Flat Junction ties down a few answers, but builds even more questions for Emma and her crew.

Final thoughts…



Let me go ahead and get straight to the point. Cold Flat Junction kind of drug in the last quarter of the book. By that time, even Emma’s spunky personality couldn’t stop the ennui I felt from her repetitious need to continue visiting adults under false pretenses so that she could chip information out of them. It was fun, cute, and clever the first 20 times, and then it got a little too "run of the mill." No doubt that she managed to gather her clues, but there came a point where I needed the mystery to push forward. (It also didn't help when several chapters were dedicated to her spending time alone, fantasizing about a trip to Florida.) But seriously, Emma would recycle her way through pumping some of the same characters for information. However, I must say that this deductive means of investigation seemed a lot more organic and appropriate when you consider the mystery is told through a twelve-year-old girl. Still, toward the end of the book, I'd had my fill and wanted to move along to the end. I don't believe I'm the only one who felt this way.  And also, some readers may grow tired not from the cycling interviews, but more from the point that Emma was always sticking her nose in adults’ business.

Grimes herself.
And that’s kind of where I also realize how some readers may have another problem regarding Emma and the storytelling.  See, there are instances where Emma sort of sermonizes her dislike in adult characters that treat her… well… like the adolescent she is. I don't think I was as smart (though I was adventurous) as Emma when I was twelve, but how she managed to find the right words to discredit those who look over her seemed learned through her ever, secretly candid mother. And I say that whether Emma is accurate or not in her assessment of said adults. Nonetheless, in essence, Emma gathered her guts and ability to criticize adults from her mother; therefore, her doing so didn't bother me at all.  It's only natural. However, I could see in places where it would bother someone to watch this girl stand up for herself, however misguided (or not) she may appear.

Take this scene:

Perhaps recalling that I was alive, Mrs. Davidow said to me, “You won’t mind keeping an eye on things here, will you?”

“Yes,” I said.


For some reason they thought this answer was amusing and laughed.


In retrospect, I think the adults treated Emma like she was younger than even twelve.

Like this moment:

I guess he was making fun of me, but I would ignore that. “Listen: I could meet you out there at Brokedown House. But you’d have to promise that you’d come.”

He 
[Dwayne Hayden] screwed his face up in the most utter surprise I’d ever seen, except when Will [her brother] was playing innocent. “Promise? You’re talking like you’re doin’ me a favor.”

I shook my hands in impatience. “Well, but will you?”


He paused for some moments, watching me and probably thinking I was crazy. A crazy kid.


I busted into laughter during this scene and many more, nowhere near phased by Emma's attitude.

All in all, I give Cold Flat Junction a solid five stars. It’s not for everyone. It’s not a traditional mystery per se. Hell, even the end was slightly (and I stretch this lightly the world over), dubious. I kind of felt like Grimes didn't give enough clues to shape the sudden appearance of a particularly character. Okay, I tried so hard to keep that last statement as spoiler-free as possible. Even so, man do I love Emma Graham’s voice, the atmosphere, the characters, and Grimes's picturesque writing ability. I feel so lucky to already have the next two books willing and waiting for me to dive back in.

Pardon My Intermissions (Monthly Rambles)

This goes out to all the writers who aspire to be published authors: is it more important to write for you or for readers? I was asking myself this question with Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month) coming up next month.  I have to say that I haven’t produced at least ten words each November since joining in 2010. Nonetheless, that doesn't dissuade the fact that I love to write, and am still plugging into writing my long-dreamed mystery novel. 

I take my time because I love writing stories that probably–though I say this with extreme doubt considering the vastness of our universe–strike a chord with me and what it is that I want to read about only. Of course, I want to eventually test the waters and share my material with the hopes that readers would connect. But still, it breeds excitement in me to write something pulled from my raw imagination; something that may be more misunderstood than my daily conversations with social individuals.

But I digress…

So what are the foreseeable advantages of writing for yourself versus others–considering you want to be published? It’s kind of a double-edged question, really. Should you want to be paid and published (or perhaps marketable), you may want to concern yourself with targeting a specific audience of readers. If you just want to trample along the pages, unleashing every curve of your imagination, then you may have to hold on to your material privately.  Especially for the sake of not having to chop and screw the material into publishable form. But who really wants to do either of the two? 

So maybe the better question is how much should you focus on writing for yourself while keeping readers in mind?

Towel did not win him over. And I knew she wouldn't.
This is something I questioned back in early 2009 when I tried to find an agent for a book I'd written. In response, the agent's first criticism was that he didn't like the names of my characters [Towel and Cornbread], names which were nicknames for characters who've lived inside my head for years.  I've written about the two many times before, but at that moment I had spent nine months drafting and editing the two an urban fantasy story with a touch of Buffy intact.  Or enough Buffy that I just knew their story was markable, despite their names. Nonetheless, I took his words gracefully, because inside and from the very start, I kind of knew it would be an issue. I suppose I just didn't care, having lived all the wildness of my fantasies on paper and through these characters for nine months.

So my ending thought is that sometimes you have to write the raw stuff for yourself, and the other stuff with readers outside your realm of strangeness in mind.  Then again, sometimes you just have to change the names, tweak a little bit more, then try again.

Ramble Ending.  Signing Out.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Tuesday Talks: Book Format You Prefer?



So which book format do you prefer?  Do you love physical books only?  How about E-books?  Or maybe you simply love the joy of audiobooks?  Answer in the comments below.

This discussion was brought up by Janie and Janelle within the Goodreads group, Tuesday Talks.  Please feel free to click on the link and join us.

Booktube Creators Mentioned:



Thursday, October 2, 2014

The Boy Who Loves Capes


This sketch came while I was at the library with my cousin and her daughter. I happened to bring a drawing pad and started sketching away. As always, I had no direction; just drawing. I only knew I was drawing a cute, youthful girl.  Or so I thought. For about a week I wrestled with the sketch, standing before the mirror trying to figure out why it wasn't working the way I liked. I continued to go over and over the drawing until I realized that it wasn't a female character, it was a male. A spunky boy who needed a smirk and a high-collared cape.


Red-head was the first thing I decided.  He was spunky, right.  Green eyes followed.  The rest I inked away.  I tried to make a big–but not too dramatic–bejeweled collar.  Don't know if I got it right, but I remove all kinds of pressure when drawing.  Just let it flow.


I had black, textured felt in mind to make up the collar.  So after I water-colored his hair orange, and shaded his eyes, I x-acto knifed the collar portion. 


I initially wanted to water-color the background a deep red, saw this scrapbooking piece in a bag (the black-fading-into-red goth boutique look), and changed my mind.  The trick was cutting around the outline of the collar, as I went about removing the negative space to fit in his backdrop.  I still needed the shape of the collar as a guide, but thought I eventually could cut out the outline...  



...But I kept it, coloring his collar's outline the same red as the cape.  Having that outline of red just seemed to make it all pop just right.  As you can see, it was all messy; so much so that I put a blank piece of paper underneath him to color everything with abandon.  Nonetheless, once the water color dried, I laid a basic orange and red chalk pastel color to his hair and cape (once again, I love layers).  As for his skin-tone–a light flesh color.  He looks so English schoolboy here. 


With all the screen and felt glued in place, I finally went about adding streaks to his hair with Prismacolor pencils.


Fill in the pupils; highlight the hair. This is actually the last shot from my camera, as opposed to a scanned form. I liked the scan version, but felt like my scanner was so small that I was losing lots of areas of the character. The jewels on his collar were cut out, as well as the cape's brooch. I did the same digital revive and retouch (or what I could, considering I'm nowhere near an expert) and added accents to the eyes so they glowed.  Now, there may be an issue with lighting between the two versions, but the darker tint of the camera's shot kind of works with the theme. 

Not in the strictest sense, but he seems Korean to me now. 

In its entirety, the drawing has this whimsicalness to it that I love. A cool kid who likes bejeweled capes with high collars; learning toward vampirism and goth, but severely unlike either.

Thanks for stopping by.  Visit Draw & Manga page for more.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Flash Afterthoughts: Playing My Mother's Blues

"Dani Carter was seven years old–her sister, Rose, seventeen–when their beautiful, impetuous mother, Maria, walked out of their lives, abandoning her husband and family for a love affair that would end tragically mere months later.  Now, after decades Dani's own loveless marriage is faltering–propelling her into the arms of another and inspiring troubling thoughts of escape from her husband and beloved young son.

Dani fears the sins of the mother have been visited upon the daughter.  And, unlike Rose, who never speaks of their lost parent, Dani can't help but wonder who Maria really was.  It's a puzzle that may soon be solved because, in a time of emotional and physical chaos, Maria, calling herself Mariah, is about to re-enter her daughters' worlds–bearing secrets and bitter truths... and, perhaps, long-awaited answers."


Playing My Mother’s Blues by Valerie Wilson Wesley was a… well… mmmm… well… it was a “meh” read. I just happened to slide it off the shelf (years ago, I saved the book from someone‘s donation pile), believing it would be a quick read to wrap up September. And it was, despite my boredom with it. 

As seen in the above blurb, the premise is appealing.  Especially if you like stories featuring people of color and drama. Nonetheless, Playing My Mother’s Blues was nothing really unique. It’s one of Wesley’s contemporary African American novels. It’s told with the same familiar themes–concerning families and their secrets–seen in her Tamara Hayle mystery series. And in many ways, the story itself reflects her recently released, When the Night Whispers, book. So Wesley’s pattern is clear.  And well... that’s pretty much it.

It was the writing and characters that kind of came across as bland and forgettable. Neither one of them went deep into the offered material. I can sum the book up as simply as a mother walking out on her family due to an affair, and months later the affair ends.  She loses the favor of her daughters, her daughters repeat her behavior as adults (and teens), she begs for the favor of her daughters.  A plot twist is thrown in at the very end... and there you have it. The characters just never go too deep, and many of which come across as one-dimensional all the way to the very end. Though Wesley throws in some hard, tough issues for the characters to confront, everything seemed too safe and pain free.

In all respects, Playing My Mother’s Blues was just a quick, easy read and not too much more.  It was just a story; uncomplicated and wholly simple in its telling.

Saturday, September 27, 2014

So Far From God by Ana Castillo

Okay! So where do I start with this one? So Far From God, by Mexican-American Chicana author, Ana Castillo. It’s the book I intended to read years ago for an ethnic American literature class, but shamefully never did. Nonetheless, I held tightly to it for a rainy day.  It takes place in a New Mexico town called Tome. It’s here that we're introduced to mother and wife, Sofi (short for Sofia), and her four, emotionally dented daughters, Esperanza, Caridad, Fe, and La Loca. Oh, that’s not to mention Sofi’s “five dogs, six cats, and four horses.”  Upon her introduction, we learn that Sofi’s marriage is on the rocks. Her husband walked out on his family years ago, leaving Sofi to raise her four girls alone. This is sort of the cornerstone to the attitude/theme of the book as well as the relationships between the female and male cast.

It’s a book that illustrates how a Mexican-American woman/wife (much reflected in the author and her own career as an activism for Chicana feminism) can gather the strength to inspire a social campaign that defies the conceptualizations of any man’s view of a woman's presuppose “role” as wife and mother. However, Sofi’s activism doesn’t arise without devastating lessons used to shape her agenda.  Many of which revolving around the fates of her four daughters.

I have to say that I really enjoyed So Far From God; four out of five stars seem sound. Nonetheless, the truth is that I kind of struggled with it in the beginning, to the point where I was about to exchange it for something else off the shelf. However, in its finality, it was a great read.  I’m glad I stuck with it until the end. 

See, it started off powerful enough, with the first chapter dedicated toward introducing Sofia and her four girls to readers. Furthermore, that first chapter showcased the magical realism used to illustrate how Sofia’s youngest daughter, La Loca, suffered from a seizure that sent her to her grave and back to life. Though she’s severely antisocial, her coming back from the dead has given her a status similar to a town magnus. And one that her family is extremely protective of.

So yes, that was the first chapter. One that was great for taking in Castillo’s direction, and her use of magical realism with Mexican flavor. But then Castillo moved into deepening the character of the middle child, Caridad.  Things got slightly rocky with the sudden thrust of a combined use of Mexican myths and folklore, religion, psychic powers, and a spontaneous laundry list of traditional remedies (that’s never used or considered again within the novel) for ailments such as gastrointestinal blockages.  It all came careening through all at once, kind of leveling away the focus. Later, once all of these wonderful elements were woven into the stories of the characters, everything seemed manageable to the reading experience. However, rushed so soon into the book kind of begged for a peek at the novel’s direction. Therefore, it took me a moment to get into the momentum of the book, and the actual charm of it all featured in the individual stories of Sofi’s four daughters.


Everything from the folklore to the traditional medicines colored So Far From God once you adjust to it, but what really made this book worthwhile is the stories of Sofi’s four daughters who carried those elements.


The eldest, Esperanza, is the hyper-responsible one with a career in journalism that eventually sends her to Saudi Arabia. Next in line comes Caridad. She’s the daughter known as the beauty of the quartet, and the one who gathers the most attention from men. She's also the one who eventually comes to question her sexuality, after surviving the assault of a "demon." Novel wise, she’s the daughter who received the majority of “screen time" and character development. The third daughter is Fe, who was probably my favorite. She’s the daughter who works as a banker. She’s also the one who suffers from a mental breakdown after her fiance abandons their engagement. Eventually, slowly, she learns to come back to love, although it arrives a little too late. Not to spoil anything, but I have to admit that her story was the one that moved me the most; and probably because it had a tinge of practicality and plausibility behind it. Meaning, it wasn't as fluffed with fables and folklore to color her motivation–unlike Cardid and La Loca. And while fables and folklore are perfectly fine, the truth is that Fe’s story seemed so real that I actually cried at its conclusion. Finally, there’s La Loca. She’s the hardest sister to understand, as Castillo loads her with symbolisms related to the other three as well as Sofi. Tack that on top of her enigmatic presence, and I'll have to leave her journey to your own thoughts.

The only other issue I had with So Far From God lie in how the operation of some scenes seemed muddled by lit prose and analogies. Now, I'm all good for the two, but in the case of scenes driven by action and movement, I'd rather not be hit with an abrupt punch of either to have the author’s point given across. So there were instances where I found myself re-read a scene and wishing for better structured and less poetry.

In closing, So Far From God has tons to offer readers.  Just as it's heartbreaking at times, it's inspirational also.  The same can be said for the level of humor Castillo applies as she explores a variety of themes relating women, relationships and their need to test society's expectations of them.  And those themes are even slimmer and specific as they relate to Chicana woman.  Nevertheless, at the end of it all, it's the stories of the women featured in the book that is worth every bit of your concentration.  I walked away from the book knowing that each of Sofia's daughters would remain unforgettable.

Friday, September 26, 2014

Who I Am? by Megan Cyrulewski?

Megan Cyrulewski is an ordinary person who has faced extraordinary challenges and now wants to inspire people and show them that hope gives them the power to survive anything. Who Am I? is about her journey into post-partum depression, anxiety disorder, panic attacks, visits to the psych ward, divorce, domestic violence, law school, and her courageous struggle to survive with her sanity intact—and how a beautiful little girl emerged from all this chaos.

Excerpt from Chapter One of Who Am I?

Chapter One:  Ahhh…Young Love

Envy. There is a reason why it’s one of the seven deadly sins. It can kill you. It almost killed me.

The summer of 2004, I was 26 and just got out of a long-term relationship. Good man, he just wasn’t the right man for me.


I had just found out that my old college roommate had recently gotten engaged. The two of us were always “competing” during college: who was skinnier, who can pick up the most guys at the bar. Stupid girl stuff. Other friends of mine were either married or having babies. I think the last straw was finding out my high school sweetheart had gotten engaged. Somewhere in fantasyland, I always thought it was possible we might get back together. Needless to say, I was definitely envious.


That summer, my roommate, Jessica, bought a house. At the time we were sharing an apartment, but she asked if I wanted to move into her house. Jessica and I had known each other since high school and she was the best roommate, and one of the best friends, I have ever had. Without hesitation, I agreed. A month after moving in, we had a house warming party. That’s when I met Tyler*.


I knew Tyler slightly because he was engaged to one of Jessica’s friends, Natalie. Tyler and Natalie and been together for about three years. They had even come to a couple of parties Jessica and I had thrown at our apartment.  I had never really talked to him, though. Tyler and Natalie had broken up around the same time I had broken up with my-long term man.


Jessica didn't want to invite Tyler because she didn't want any tension between him and Natalie. A few days before the party, though, we found out Natalie was going to be out of town. Coincidentally, Tyler stopped by that same night to give something of Natalie’s to Jessica. That was the first time I had really looked at him and I liked what I saw: good-looking, goofy smile, and deep-blue eyes. The attraction was instantaneous. So, I decided to invite him to the house-warming party. Why the hell not? Natalie wasn't going to be there. After getting the eyes of death from Jessica, she reluctantly told him the day and time.


The night of the party, Tyler knocked on the door. When I opened it, I gave him a hug and told him I was glad he was there because at least I had someone to flirt with. I didn't really pay attention to him too much during the party.  But after everyone had left, he and I ended up talking until five in the morning.


A couple of nights later, we went on our first date. We went to dinner and then back to his house to watch a movie. We were very open with each other. I told him about my anxiety disorder, he told me about his drug addiction and how he had been clean for years. Five months later, I moved in with him, four months after that we got engaged and a year later, we were married. Needless to say, the relationship was on overdrive from the beginning.


The relationship wasn't perfect, but whose is? Tyler didn't like his current job and was looking for a new one.  Tyler was trying to quit smoking because he knew I didn't like it. Tyler was a recovering addict and going to NA meetings. It’s a stressful time. That became my mantra. Tyler got angry. “It’s a stressful time.” Tyler screamed at me. “It’s a stressful time.”


I was an independent woman in my mid-twenties, in a stable job making $55,000 and climbing up the corporate ladder. I understood stress. I was also in complete denial. This was the beginnings of what I would later understand was a domestic violence relationship and a relationship with someone who has Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD). There were the signs of these disorders, of course, but I didn't recognize them at the time.


My paternal family is 100% Polish. In my grandmother’s generation, girls were expected to get married and have babies. A lot of babies. My grandmother was one of six children. After I graduated from high school, on Christmas Eve, my grandmother would pray that the next year I would get married and start a family. I always smiled and told her maybe. I loved my grandmother very much. She was the only grandparent I had ever known.


After Tyler and I got engaged, we went to my grandmother’s house to tell her the news she had been waiting for. When we told her, she stood up, pushed me aside, hugged Tyler and said, “God bless you.” The memory still makes me smile. Three months later, she had a stroke. In February 2006, seven months before the wedding, my grandmother passed away. Devastation doesn't even coming close to how I felt. I called in to work, stayed in bed and cried for two days.


The night of the funeral, my dad's company catered dinner at my parent’s house for our family. On the way to their house, I noticed that the car was low on gas. I stopped at a gas station and asked Tyler if he could pump the gas. Tyler was on the phone and told me to pump the gas myself. We were only two miles from my parents’ house. I was still upset and crying from the funeral. I asked him again to please just pump the gas. He didn't even bother to answer me. I got out of the car and pumped the gas myself. When I got back into the car, I told Tyler that I was upset and a little angry. What happened next was my first glimpse into the emotional abusive side of domestic violence.


“You are such a spoiled little bitch who expects the world to be handed to you,” Tyler screamed at me. “Turn the fucking car around.”


Not saying a word, I turned the car around and headed back home to drop off Tyler, who kept spewing vile words.


“You and your family think you're so much better than me. Did daddy pump your gas for you all the time? Well guess what? You actually have to do things yourself now. It’s time for you to grow up and live in the real world.”


Tears streamed from my eyes. I still had not said a word.


“Your grandmother probably killed herself because she didn't want to deal with you anymore. She probably got tired of your spoiled behavior and decided death was better than you. I’m glad I’m going home because I don't want to watch your fucking family cry all night.”


When we got back home, I parked in the driveway and finally let loose.


“How dare you!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “I just lost my grandmother! Get out of my car! Get out!”


Tyler started laughing. “Look at you. You're a joke. You should get some help for those anger issues of yours. Don't bother coming back, bitch. Your shit will be on the curb.”


I left and went to my parents’ house. When my dad asked about Tyler, I said we got into an argument and he’s at home. My dad, who is the family peacemaker and almost never says anything negative said under his breath, “What a night for him to pick a fight.”


About an hour into dinner, Tyler called me. He said he wanted to come over and apologize. At this point, I was so emotionally drained I really didn't care. When he arrived, he waltzed right into the house like nothing had ever happened. He pulled me aside and told me that he blew up because he was under so much stress from taking care of me the last couple of days. Looking back at the moment, I wonder how he even had the audacity to blame my grandmother’s death for his behavior. At the time, I was just glad he wasn't mad anymore.


The next couple of months were calm. No arguments and Tyler and I were having fun planning the wedding. Obviously, the argument the night of my grandmother’s funeral was a result of stress. We got through it and according to Tyler, it wouldn't happen again.


Early June 2006, I was in bed reading and waiting for Tyler to come home from a Narcotics Anonymous (NA) meeting. When he got home, he came upstairs and walked toward the bed. He stopped and asked if I smelled anything.


“No,” I said, a little confused.


“It smells like cat piss.” (We had a cat that sometimes urinated outside the litter box.)


Tyler looked around the room and picked up a bed pillow off the floor. He smelled it.


“She pissed on this pillow.”


I laughed. “It’s sad when the pillow is right next to me and I can't smell the pee.”


Tyler didn’t laugh. “Clean it up.”


“I'll put it in the wash tomorrow. Just throw it in the basement.”


Tyler picked up the pillow. “Bitch. You waited until I came home because you knew I would fucking clean it.” He ripped the book I was reading right out of my hands and threw it across the room. “Get off your fat lazy ass, get some paper towels  and clean it!”


I started to shake. The monster had emerged again.  I couldn't say anything. Tyler picked up the pillow and shoved it in my face.


“Smell it!” He screamed. “Can you smell it now, bitch? Now your face smells like cat piss. You’re disgusting. Who would want you anyway?”


Tyler threw the pillow back on the floor and stormed downstairs. I just sat in bed, paralyzed from fear. I couldn't think. I couldn't speak. I couldn't even cry.


I don't know how much time had passed before Tyler came back. Without saying a word, he picked up two water bottles I had sitting on the nightstand beside me, unscrewed the tops, and poured water on me. He laughed and went back downstairs.


I took off my pajamas, turned out the light and rolled to the dry side of the bed. Before long, I heard Tyler come up the stairs again. I began to shake. He ripped the covers off of me.


“You would sleep in a wet bed. I should have poured cat piss on you and let you sleep in that,” he laughed. “Get out of my fucking bed and sleep outside.”


I got out of bed and put on dry pajamas. I took off my engagement ring, threw it on the bed and left. I went to Jessica’s house and asked if I could spend the night. I didn't talk about what happened. I just told her that the engagement was off and I just needed to sleep. Jessica never asked any questions and I love her for that.


Before long, my phone rang and it was Tyler. He asked me to come back home. I was hesitant, but he convinced me to come back home and talk. I left Jessica a note and went back home.


When I got home, Tyler was sitting on the couch. “I’m going to get a six-pack of beer, drink it and kill myself.”


Shocked, I sat down next to him. “Do you want me to call someone? Should I call your sponsor? I don’t know what to do.”


Tyler kept repeating. “I’m going to kill myself.” He was crying, but there weren't any tears.


I hugged him. “We'll get through this. We’ll get help. Please don't kill yourself. I love you too much.”


“Thank you,” Tyler smiled. And just like that, he got up, told me he loved me, and went to bed.


Looking back, I now realize that this was Tyler’s way of manipulation. Tyler knew he let his anger get out of control, to the point that I walked away. To get me back, he subtly blamed me for what happened by alluding that he was going to commit suicide. At the time, I felt guilty for not cleaning the damn pillow. If I had cleaned that pillow, this never would have happened. I promised myself to be more careful in the future.


The next morning, my engagement ring was on my nightstand.**

___________________________________________________________________


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AUTHOR BIO

Megan Cyrulewski has been writing short stories ever since she was ten-years-old.  Eventually she settled into a career in the non-profit sector and then went back to school to get her law degree.  While she was in school, she documented her divorce and child custody battle in her memoir, Who Am I? How My Daughter Taught Me to Let Go and Live Again, which was released on August 2, 2014.  Megan lives in Michigan with her 3-year-old daughter who loves to dance, run, read, and snuggle time with Mommy.  Megan also enjoys her volunteer work with Troy Youth Assistance as the Fundraising Chair on the Board of Directors.

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