In Search of a Dream

Part of short story:

Sitting beside the turbulent creek, Desiree thought about her dream. Her eyes were slowly drawn to the stick, caught near the edge of the bank, where the dark water ran more slowly. Its dream would probably have been to rush headlong downstream to be part of a large body of water instead of stuck in a small pool, going nowhere. 'In a way,' she thought, 'that is what some dreams are like.'

She watched the stick for a few more minutes as it turned in lazy, drifting circles. Her life would be like that if she didn't get out of the rut she had allowed herself to be sucked into. Reaching out, she picked up the stick and threw it back into the centre of the rushing creek. Watching it move towards freedom, she realized something else could delay its progress along the way. Desiree knew that is what can happen to all dreams.

Where had her dream run aground? She felt as if she had lost sight of it; as if the act of living couldn't co-exist with the life of a dream. She had always wanted to be a well-known singer but now, it seemed, she just sang for the enjoyment of her family. Somewhere along the way she had let excuses keep her from achieving her dream.

She watched the water, the small waves persistenly bypassing the large boulders, refusing to be stopped. Small branches and leaves stayed on course, also stubbornly refusing to lose their way, not wishing to find themselves in shallow water. She had let circumstances push her to the side where her dream of becoming a singer became less important than what others wanted. As a result she had ended up in shallow water, going nowhere, like that small stick. It takes courgage, she knew, to stay away from the shore, to move out of your comfort zone and grab opportunities when they came your way. It was only luck if someone picked you up and threw you back into the middle of the stream. It was up to you to get your own life on course.

She took off her shoes and waded into the cool water, letting it froth in foamy bubbles around her ankles. She could feel its life and the pressure of it pushing forward. Like following a dream, the creek was persistently struggling toward success. She had to do that too. She had to stop being afraid.

Fear was her worst enemy. She blamed it on shyness; a lack of confidence, of not wanting to push herself into the public eye, hoping success would land in her lap. She was as good as anyone else who had proven to themselves they could do it.

Stepping out of the water, Desiree reminded herself that life wasn't smooth sailing. It was like the rushing creek finding paths around obstacles. With eddies and whirlpools, it may suck you down into its depths and then spit you to the surfance again but eventually with effort, and perhaps some luck, you'll be able to break free. Avoiding rough patches was difficult but she would find her way around them. She glanced back again at the creek and knew exactly what her first step toward success was going to be. Gathering up her book, she walked away without another backward glance.

To be continued ...

Why Didn't You Do Something, Mama?

Part of a short story:

Taylor pressed her face into her hands and let the hot, bitter tears slide slowly down her cheeks. It had been another disaster, she realized, yet another poor choice. Why did she keep doing it over and over again? She had asked herself this question so many times before. But there never seemed to be an answer. And sadly, she suspected, her next choice would be just as dismal as it always had been.

With the back of her hand, she rubbed impatiently at the falling tears, smearing her black mascara in the process. 'Oh shite,' she thought when she saw the smudge of black across her knuckles. 'I can't even do that right.'

In another surge of self-pity, her tears, hot on her face, fell uncontrollably. Perhaps it really did have something to do with what had happened all those years ago when she was a child, as a friend had once suggested. But that couldn't be! That had been her fault. Hadn't Mama said, 'stay away from him.' She still carried feelings of guilt about that. But her small inner child's voice cried inside her head, 'But Mama, I was only a little girl. Why didn't you do something, Mama?'

She rubbed briskly at her face again. 'Enough of this self-pity,' she told herself as she walked into the bathroom. Gazing at the mascara streaks on her cheeks and with her eyes red and swollen from crying, she began to laugh. "Well, isn't that just like the rest of my life. You're going to have to start over again on that face too, kiddo," she told herself.

'Well, how many times had she started over,' she asked herself,'and on more than just her face.' There had been Frank, her first love. Charming, she'd thought until the real Frank, self-centered, egotistical and a two-timer to boot had shown up for breakfast one morning and had never left. The last straw with him had been the miscarriage. Lying alone in her hospital bed, he had neither come to give her emotional support nor shown any concern for her loss after she came home. She had eventually left but not before his treatment of her had left her edges raw and exposed like an unravelled sweater.

Then there had been Eric. She thought she'd found true love at last. He appeared to be good-natured and funny, a man who could make her laugh, she'd thought. It was just what she needed. But she discovered those were the good times. During the bad times he was depressed, suicidal or morose and when he was depressed, he dragged everyone around him into whatever hole he had dug for himself. Realizing something was very wrong, she had managed to convince him to go to a doctor where he was diagnosed with manic depression and was placed on heavy doses of medication. But he refused to stay on his meds. One day when he became so morose and angry that she felt fearful for her safety, she decided it was time to leave.

And so then there had been John. She was sure she had found a winner this time. Popular with his friends, the life of all the parties they attended; she enjoyed his company. And it turned out he'd had as much bad luck in relationships as she'd had so they certainly had a lot in common. When he asked her to move in with him, she was convinced they'd be good for each other. Until that is, she realized he was putting rum into his coffee every morning; she suspected more rum than coffee. 'Only as a pick-me-up, Sweetie,' he'd say. Then there were a couple of drinks because it was almost lunchtime. 'I don't know why you're upset, it's almost noon and you know what they say, it's five o'clock somewhere.' And of course, he couldn't miss happy hour before dinner because that was when the evening fun began. She had to hand it to him though, he could really hold his alcohol. It was no wonder, she thought, that he was the life of all the parties. So, without finishing unpacking all of her boxes, she left before things got any worse.

Applying fresh make-up, she felt her tears begin to well up again.Closing her eyes, she willed herself not to cry. She knew she had to make some changes in her life. She was going to discover why she picked those who were not good for her. Did she not feel she was worthy of a decent relationship? Did she jump too quickly into a relationship? Was she too trusting and gullible? Or was sher flawed in some terrible way?

To be continued...