Apple Pie and I

The fruity smell of apple pie traveled to his nose and went down to his stomach, a growl announcing its arrival. Like a hound dog, he followed the aroma and hunted for its source. Where did it come from? He looked at the house at the other end of the street. It used to be empty, but people had recently moved.

The place was special. It had been empty for a long time, and people said it was cursed. Ten years ago, something terrible happened. Something  nobody wanted to talk about. It was a forbidden topic.

Toy, as they loved to call him, wanted a piece of that pie. Badly. Hypnotized by the exquisite aroma, and ignoring all warnings, he strolled towards the house. When he crossed the street, a black cat crossed in front of him in a sign of bad luck. But he wasn't thinking. He continued to walk the pie walk. He knocked. No answer. He knocked again, this time harder. Still no answer. Frustrated, he walked around the house--to the back. The wonderful pie sat by the window, waiting to be eaten. Toy approached it, but Mr. Pie looked back at him in defiance. Toy jumped, grabbed the pie, and stormed back.

When he got home, he gave the pie a long stare. Dinner was ready. He was ready.

“Toy!” she yelled.

He  looked at the floor and didn't answer. He looked up.

She glared at Toy. “Bad dog!”

Flying Seashells

“Close your eyes.

“Imagine you’re standing in a beach, the sand covering your bare feet. A splash of cold water makes you gasp. So unexpected, yet so refreshing.

“Now listen to the waves crashing against the sand.

“Moisten your lips and taste the salt floating in the air.

“Open your eyes, Lisa.”

The beach reminds me of my childhood. I gasp and raise my eyelids. “The seashell!”

The doctor's forehead wrinkles. “Tell me about the seashell.”

“I was nine when we found it. My dad said it played ocean music, and I-I…”

He stares at me, waiting for me to continue. I look away, concentrating on a painting of a blue mountain.

I face him. “It sounded like the sea, but I know that sound is—”

“It doesn’t matter what you know now,” he interrupts. “What matters is what it was to you.” He writes a note. “What did you feel?”

My hands sweat. “It didn’t feel right.” I pause, but he gestures me to continue. I sigh, knowing I need to tell him. “It stunk.”

The doctor raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything.

“It made a sound so loud,” I continue, “I threw the seashell to the ground and yelled.”

He writes on his notepad, his eyes glued to mine. “And then?”

“I passed out.”

He rubs his forehead. “Is this how your problem started?”

I nod. Memories rush to my mind. The hospital. The way the nurses looked at me, as if I were a monster. The constant medicine. Mom smiling, her eyes sad.

“Where are your parents?” he interrupts my thoughts.

“Parents?” I echo, thinking. “After the incident, I never saw my dad again. He died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the doctor says, but I know he’s trying to be sympathetic as this information is on my file.

I give him a half smile. “That was a long time ago.”

“What about your mother?” he asks.

I shake my head and roll my eyes. “You know what happened to her. Why do you ask?”

“Sorry.” He takes a deep breath. “Do you know why she is...there?”

Here we go again. This is the fifth doctor I tell what happened. “She hated me.”

The doctor pens more notes. “Why?”

“Because of the stupid seashell,” I want to run away, but I know they’re waiting for me outside.

“What about the seashell?” he asks.

“Because seashells kill people. That’s why!”

His face hardens, and he looks at me intently. “You’re not ready.”

“I am!” I say.

“You’re in denial.” He shakes his head. “You killed your parents.”

“No, I didn’t!” I wrestle with my straitjacket and stand.

Two guards storm inside the room and grab my shoulders, while the doctor injects me. I feel dizzy.

Seashells fly, hitting people’s heads, making them explode.

Shuffling

Writing is like shuffling dominoes: you start with some pieces and end up with rubbish.

But then you have something fixable, which is better than nada.

What follows is more shuffling:

Mechanics of the story? Was he seating and now he's outside the house? How did that happened?

Time of day? I had a character having breakfast at 9 p.m., which is not that bad, but still...

What about the sense of smell? A girl enters a fish packing factory, but it doesn't stink.

More shuffling.

Should she cry before she says, "He died," or after? Does it make sense?

Oh, the wonders of writing.

After all this shuffling, I take the story to a critique group.

I get frowns and blank stares, signaling some parts of the story are still buried somewhere inside my brain, refusing to leave. I take a million notes.

And then, again, more shuffling.

Now the tale is patchwork. Still rubbish. Crap. Caca.

So, like good whine, I let the story breathe. Pretty much, I try to forget it.

Then I revisit and, finally, fix it so it makes sense.

Sort of... well, at least I try.