Uncategorized – Ava Victoria Black

Evermore

July 6, 2023 Ava.BlackLeave a comment

Ok, so… I recently watched this documentary that made my head spin. It’s called “the King of Clones,” and it took me a wild, unforgettable ride, quite like Black Mirror.

I grew up in the 90s. I remember when Dolly the Sheep was everywhere, and people couldn’t stop talking about cloning. I remember the movie The 6th Day with Ahrnie, and I thought for sure human cloning was coming in the next decade. I even wrote my first argumentative essay about stem cell research for my English AP class.

This documentary reminded me of those 90s and 00s thorny topics that fascinated me. As I was watching in both bemusement and horror, I realized that…no one is really talking about cloning anymore. At least, not the way they used to.

The part of the documentary that really shooketh me was segments on the man who had his pet dog cloned. The dude was obsessed with his dog and called him an “older brother.” He was clearly loaded, too, and spent I don’t even want to know how much getting his dog cloned after it died. I don’t blame him. If my cat died, and I was that rich, I might do the same.

Except…EXCEPT! He kept the body of the first dog in his freezer for YEARS. Then, at the end of the documentary, he buried it, declaring his dog hadn’t really died because it grew up in the same environment with the same people. He was merely disposing of the dog’s first body. To him, his dog had transcended death.

This isn’t the part that got me. The part that really stirred me up was that the dead dog’s clone was WATCHING him bury the original. It was too much for me and my little brain. I almost short-circuited on my couch.

Then I started wondering…what if it was a person instead of a dog? And the Reedsy prompt “Write a story about your protagonist going through a rite of passage” came up the next week, and I just had to do it. I had to do it!

Oh and…

…you’ll know why soon enough.

Sensitive Content Warning: Abuse; Suicide; Mental Health

EVERMORE

April 4^th, 2030

I wish I could tell Mom and Dad the truth, but it would kill them. The truth is so stupid, too!

I hate painting! There! I said it.

Especially with Mom. Today, I picked purple instead of red for the flowers I drew. This made Mom cry because Cassy’s favorite color was red. Mom cried so much Dad had to put her to bed. Cassy’s birthday is soon; last year, it stressed out Mom so much that she was hospitalized. Her birthday is the same day as mine because, let’s be real, nothing truly belongs to me.

I hope the pressure will ease once my birthday passes. Mom’s health hasn’t been great lately, and Dad is forgetting things. It started as soon as he retired last year, which, at age seventy-six, is really late compared to most people. Dad’s work as a scientist made us rich, according to Mom. She’s nearly as old as him, but unlike Dad, her memory is sharp. Too sharp. It makes my life hell.

Still, I’m scared of what will happen to me if they aren’t around. I’m not old enough to live independently. Even worse, I could get taken by the government and forced into experiments, like Dad warned.

Every flower I paint has to be red. I have to stick to the saxophone, even though I hate it because that’s what Cassy played.

I wish I could become a writer. I stay up late every night, secretly reading books I get from the library and writing in this diary to practice. The other night, Dad caught me and told Mom. Mom shouted at the top of her lungs that Cassy hated reading and took the book from me and ripped it up! Well, she tried to rip it up. Her arthritis is too bad to do any actual damage.

I’d die if she took this diary away. It’s the only thing keeping me sane.

I guess I’ll just have to lie and say I’m staying late at school for homework so I can read books there in secret.

April 9^th, 2030

Yesterday, Mom drove with Ryan and picked me up from school. Everyone thought Ryan was Dad’s equivalent because he’s so old, but I told them he’s just our butler.

Didn’t matter. Today, my entire class made fun of me for living with my grandparents, which is pathetic because they’re actually my parents. Not that anyone knows the truth, nor could I ever tell them. Anyway, the class ridiculed me until Mrs. Elliot walked in and caught them.

Mrs. Elliot reported everything to the headteacher, who reported it to my parents. This bougie private school takes bullying seriously. I was relieved until I got home and Mom yelled, Cassy was bullied. While she never agreed with it, it taught Cassy empathy, which she worries I lack.

Then she mentioned making me switch schools again. “A public one,” Mom said, because apparently, bullying is worse there.

I tried not to cry because Cassy never cried, but I couldn’t help it. I burst into tears and ran into my room and slammed the door.

Dad came up not long after. He was out of breath by the time he reached the top of the stairs, his gray hair askew, as it often is. His thick glasses had smudges on them. He sat on the edge of my bed and stared at my bedroom wall for a long time.

“These posters are old,” he mumbled, looking at one of Justin Bieber’s concerts in 2009.

I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to scream, please let me take them down, but I didn’t want to send him into a spiral.

“After Cassy’s birthday—sorry, your birthday—we could take down some of these old posters. What do you think?”

I hesitated, not knowing if this was a trick. The fading, crumpled Justin Bieber poster stared back at me, daring me to say something I’d regret.

Honestly, I don’t get why everyone was so obsessed with him back then. Cassy loved him, apparently.

“Once the birthday passes, you’ll have made it past an important milestone, and I think it’s fair to say it’s time for you to make your own decisions.” His eyes glazed over a bit, and his mouth fell open like it always does when he spaces out.

“Ok,” I said. That’s all I’ll ever say. If I’m too rebellious, Dad will think I’m a failure. I’ve never asked what happens if I fail. I don’t want to know.

“What was that?” he asked, his cataract-filled eyes glazed over. “Oh, dear, it’s late. Are you hungry? Did we eat?”

I held back my tears, said I would grab food, and headed to the kitchen for snacks. Thankfully, Mom was asleep.

Now I’m under the blankets, worrying about what will happen if I can’t be as perfect as Cassy was.

I don’t think I’d go to the labs, but they might replace me.

I really, really hope he remembers his promise.

April 12^th, 2030

Dad talked Mom out of switching schools. I guess he remembered what we talked about a few days ago. I’m hoping this is a good sign that maybe, just maybe, I’ll get more freedom.

My birthday is in three days, and Mom bought flour to make a pineapple upside-down cake. I hate pineapple, but I could never tell her that. She makes it every year and sings Cassy’s favorite song, Baby, by Justin Bieber (of course). I think it’s the only time she experiences genuine joy.

Surviving this birthday means I outlived Cassy. Cassy didn’t make it past sixteen, so if I make it even one day past this birthday, I’ll be a success.

Mx. Lo caught me hiding in the library at lunch, reading. They suggested I read outside before it gets too smoky from forest fires. I said I preferred artificial light to natural light. Mx. Lo looked uneasy; all I could do was try to seem confident.

Later, Ryan picked me up from school, and the car ride home was silent and eerie. I was terrified Mx. Lo had called my parents. I came home expecting Mom to have a stroke, but she was trimming roses and humming a Selena Gomez song that Cassy used to love.

Maybe a teenager reading in the library isn’t that weird to ordinary people like Mx. Lo. Maybe I’m not as much of a failure as my parents think.

I hate that I have to keep this secret. Dad would go to jail, though, and who knows what would happen to Mom.

And me? Dad said they’d send me to a lab for the rest of my life and experiment on me against my will. They’d torture me, he said. Justin Bieber’s music is torture, but it’s nothing compared to what the government would do to me.

April 16^th, 2030

The assholes turned my birthday into a funeral. I’m so angry!

My actual birthday, which was yesterday, was fine. We listened to Justin Bieber on repeat, ate shitty cake, and talked about my day at school. I lied about a poppy painting to please Mom, and now I have to paint one. Ugh.

Honestly, it wasn’t the worst birthday. Usually, they’re filled with warnings about how I might not see my next.

Except Ryan woke me up early the following day. He made me dress up in one of Cassy’s old white dresses. I noticed that he, too, was also entirely in white. He took me into our backyard, where Mom and Dad were waiting, also dressed in white. The sun was still rising. Just past our patio were flowers on giant reefs and a big hole in the ground. Next to it was a medium-sized coffin and two other small ones.

The medium-sized one was open. My first thought was that I had failed to live up to their expectations, and they planned to bury me alive. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t move.

Nearby, two men in dirt-covered jumpsuits held shovels and cigarettes. Ryan sent them away. I wonder how much Mom and Dad paid them to keep quiet. Probably made them sign NDAs, too.

“Your father and I have been talking, and we agreed that it’s time.” Mom wiped her wrinkled face with a handkerchief. “This isn’t just a birthday, sweetheart. It’s a rite of passage. You’ve ascended from your old body into the next. You defied death.”

I blurted out, “You’ve had her this whole time?!” I couldn’t help myself. Mom’s wrinkly skin went pale. Dad shook his head, jowls flapping.

“No, Cassy, we’ve had you this whole time. But now that it’s your sixteenth birthday, we can lay your first body to rest, along with your other two bodies that sadly did not make it this far.”

I stared at the dark coffin. Dew had formed on it. I was used to weird talk about my “past life,” but they didn’t tell me they kept the bodies! And the casket was open! I couldn’t see in it yet, and I really, really didn’t want to. I gazed past the fence and into the dense forest behind our house, and without thinking, I bolted towards it.

Ryan caught me before I made it far. He dragged me back with his hand over my mouth as I screamed. He urged me to stop and promised it would end soon.

I don’t know why, but I listened to him. I wiped my tears, turned around, and faced my parents.

“Go ahead,” Dad said.

I walked up to the casket. I saw hands resting on a chest.

My hands.

I looked at my Dad, who gave me a faint nod. Mom was too busy crying happy tears, staring at the casket with a manic look I have seen far too many times.

“Don’t be afraid!” she bellowed. “You can’t ever die, Cassy. You’ll always be here.” She sobbed into her hands while Dad rubbed her back. He gave me another stern nod, his expression screaming, don’t upset your mother.

I approached the casket, tasting bile. I closed my eyes and then opened them.

It was me in there. My dead skin was blue and frozen. I had sunken cheeks. My blonde hair was in neat ringlets. I was wearing a white, frilly dress. My chest stuck out unnaturally like someone had stuffed it. I am identical to the body in the casket, except for being alive and well. Even my nails are the same oval shape.

“What do you want me to say?” I asked numbly.

“Show yourself some respect,” Dad snapped.

I couldn’t say she’d died so I could live because Cassy isn’t dead in my parents’ minds. To them, I’m the same person who’s in the casket. I’m here, dressed in her old, out-of-fashion clothes, listening to the same bad music, and hating my life like she did. Mom and Dad figured if I did everything exactly the same, I’d become the person Cassy was.

Except I’m not doing anything. The girl in the casket is. I’m just her clone–her third one, to be exact. My rich, well-connected father secretly commissioned me through his network of questionable Korean scientists. I’m the clone that, unfortunately, survived the process.

Writing the truth feels great, but I might have to burn this diary after. I can’t go to a lab. I just can’t.

“Thank you,” I said to my former self. I walked away. I really, really wanted to throw up.

Both men returned, smoked, and buried the three clones in one hole. Mom sobbed the entire time. Dad stood still other than occasionally adjusting his glasses. He seemed weirdly lucid through all of it.

The lie my parents tell everyone is that I’m their grandkid. Cassy had a secret child before she died, and it was me. Cassy killed herself because she had mental health issues and the baby didn’t help.

I think it’s pretty rich that my parents act like I’m the one disrespecting Cassy, despite them lying about her past like that. But who am I to say anything? I’m supposed to be her. I’m not permitted to have my own opinions. They only revealed the truth about my identity four years ago because, according to them, I was old enough to keep it a secret.

Mom and Dad let me leave the funeral before them, and I puked in the downstairs toilet when I got into the house. Mom and Dad didn’t hear. They were too busy crying outside by the casket.

I hate this. I can’t tell anyone the truth. I feel so alone. Cloning humans is still illegal in North America. Even if I could summon the courage to say something, I have no friends I can tell. I can’t relate to anyone at school. I’m not allowed to like what they like because many of their hobbies and favorite singers didn’t exist when Cassy was alive. I’m stuck living someone else’s life, except, genetically speaking, I am that person. I am Cassy.

My head hurts. I want to throw up again.

One day I might write a horror story about a clone who has to act like their dead former self. Then she has to watch herself get buried in some sick ritual that her parents have been anticipating since she was “born.” That’s the closest I’ll ever get to being able to speak my truth.

Except I don’t want anyone to discover me and take me to a lab for experiments, particularly if my Dad alive to safeguard me.

Maybe I’ll write a story about a girl forced to impersonate her dead older sister. It’s a close enough comparison and won’t raise red flags. I hope, anyway.

I want to tell the truth. I want to be seen. But maybe I should just be grateful I exist. Maybe Mom and Dad are right—Cassy can’t die, and neither can I.

I guess I should be happy about that. Doesn’t everyone want to live forever?

Why can’t I be happy?

April 21st, 2030

I thought my birthday/funeral would be the worst thing that ever happened to me. I asked to read last night, but Dad got angry and said it wasn’t like Cassy. Then he told me to practice saxophone.

He forgot everything he had promised.

I snapped, threw my saxophone at the wall, and ran out of the house.

Ryan eventually found me at a gas station down the hill from our house. He rolled up in Dad’s black SUV. I didn’t fight. I just got in the front seat. On the way home, he pulled over on the side of the road. I started biting my nails.

He looked older than usual when he spoke. “There’s something I need to tell you about Cassy.”

“Great,” I said sarcastically. I couldn’t help it.

“I knew the first Cassy. She hated the color red and despised painting, especially with your mother. She wanted to be a writer. Except your mother wanted Cassy to play saxophone because that’s what your mother played when she was young. She punished Cassy for reading and being herself, quite like she does now.”

My heart felt like it might break out of my chest. “What about Justin Bieber?”

“Your mother loves him. Cassy—no, you hate him. Always have. Don’t listen to your parents. Your father was never around. He barely knew Cassy. The poor girl felt trapped. That’s why she…”

My heart exploded, and I cried so much. Cassy suffered like I did, and that’s why she killed herself?

Ryan unbuckled his seatbelt and hugged me. “In two years, you’ll graduate. You can go to college and pursue your dreams. Take out student loans and free yourself from them. I’ll be there to help you. I promise. I watched you grow up twice. I won’t do it a third time.”

We drove home, but only after I finished crying. I apologized to Mom and Dad and went to my room; weirdly, they left me alone. I’ve been here ever since. It’s dark now, and my stomach is growling, but I can’t bring myself to eat.

I hated Cassy for so long, but we’re more similar than I realized. We’re not just similar. We’re the same person. I am her. I feel sorry for her. For myself, I should say. I didn’t make it out of this house last time, but I will this time. If I can defy death, I can do anything.

There’s a painting of poppies on my bedroom wall that Cassy did. It’s Mom’s favorite. I never noticed before, but some petals aren’t red. They’re magenta, yellow, and even violet. The red petals are near the front and are bigger than the rest, giving the illusion the flowers are mostly one color.

My cheeks hurt from smiling. I guess I’m smarter than I give myself credit for.

Sammy, Tammy, and Pearl

June 6, 2023June 6, 2023 Ava.BlackLeave a comment

…and my blatant use of the Oxford comma.

Things have been hectic here. I have been moving, moving, moving. And when I’m not packing, I’m painting rooms.

Regardless, I wanted to write this short story to submit to Reedsy’s weekly contests. When I saw the topic, I jumped on it. It’s based on a true story I heard from a friend who is a massage therapist. I’ve been thinking about turning it into a short story for a long time, so I’m glad to share it at last.

Getting my entry submitted amidst the moving chaos was tough, though. The formatting got screwed up after I posted it and I was up until 11:59 PM Friday, typing right until the deadline, trying to fix it. I managed to complete it on time, but I don’t know if there were formatting errors in the final version. Oh well. I’m honestly just happy I put it out there.

—

Sammy, Tammy, and Pearl

“You sure you don’t want to meet for a drink?” The greasy man asks, his raspy voice muffled as he lays belly-down on the massage table. “I’m only here for one night. Let’s make it a fun one, yeah?”

Aileen pulls her oily hands away from her massage client, wincing as her carpal tunnel flares up.

“Well?” he demands. “I’m a bit older, but I’m still fun! Hell, you can even call me Daddy if you want.”

“You’re all done!” Aileen says cheerfully. “Jasmin can take your payment outside.”

“I’ll pay you for the night. How about that?”

“Jasmin can take your payment outside.”

Aileen flees the room and shuts the door promptly before he can respond. She speeds past the reception desk towards the break room.

Jasmin, the only other massage therapist in the spa, locks eyes with Aileen and quickly pulls out the debit machine. She begins punching in the cost of the appointment. “Go! I’ll tell him you left.”

Aileen races into the break room and shuts the door. She lunges across the room for her bottle of Advil and takes three extra strength—probably too many, but stomach lining be damned, her wrists are killing her. She swallows the pills and leans against the door, listening. Mercifully, her client pays quietly and leaves.

The hotel spa was desperate for massage therapists. Tourism and travel had spiked, and rich people were coming to the city in droves. Here, Aileen was getting paid nearly double what she had been at her last health practitioner’s clinic. Spa work was hard work, though, with back-to-back appointments, rude clients, and brief breaks.

But worse, it was soulless. When Aileen worked in a health clinic, she felt she was making a difference. Clients would tell her about their lives, and not only would Aileen see the positive benefits of her work as they healed, she’d also help them with some of their other personal problems. She had taken pride in that.

But more importantly, not once had someone requisitioned her a happy ending. Here, it happened at least once a week, if not more.

“He’s gone!” Jasmin calls out.

Aileen slowly opens the door. She stands in the frame, watching Jasmin at the nearby reception desk that resembles a large marble tomb.

“He looked like Donald Trump and Eugene Levy had a lovechild,” Jasmin says, barely repressing her grin.

“Gross! You know what he told me? He’s on his third divorce, but he bragged about being a lawyer, which means he always gets the better deal.” Aileen wanted to vomit. “I’m going in to clean the room.”

Aileen entered the dim treatment room. She ripped the oily sheets off the table and threw them in the laundry hamper. Once upon a time, she’d prided herself in only speaking highly of her patients. Sure, they sometimes said pretty intense stuff on the table, but she liked helping them through it.

Now it was how much for a blow-job this, or do drugs with me in my suite that. It was enough to make Aileen scream. But the money was too good, and she had to pay off her student loan somehow. Thankfully, she rarely had repeat patients, and Jasmin was always happy to hear a good rant.

Sighing, Aileen left the small, artificially soothing room and went to the front desk. Jasmin sat behind it, grinding her teeth as she used the computer’s thin, expensive mouse to click through their schedule. Across from their large marble reception desk sat three elderly women, all wearing the same long-sleeved, loose sundress but in different pastel colors. Cool lavender, dusty pink, and baby blue.

Aileen was straight back to work with barely a second to breathe, let alone recover. She approached Jasmin apprehensively, trying not to look like she was walking into a dog fighting pit as she did.

Jasmin’s grimace screamed I’m just glad it isn’t me. “Thirty minutes each, back-to-back. I’d help, but I have a client coming soon for a 90-minute appointment.”

Aileen’s wrists and forearms screamed as if they were part of the conversation, too. It was always back-to-back. Why wasn’t the painkiller working?

One woman looked at her, and smiled, revealing a row of blindingly white dentures.

“Hi!” Aileen said with much fake cheer. “My name is Aileen. It sounds like I’ll be treating all three of you today!”

“Why yes!” The woman in the lavender dress perked up “We’re friends. Best friends! Have been since we were practically kids!”

“Hush. This poor young woman doesn’t care about that.” Pink says in a severe tone. “But yes, we are friends.”

“How nice!” Aileen responds. “Such a pleasure to meet you all. What are your names?”

“Sammy,” the woman in the pink dress says coldly.

“Tammy,” the lady in purple says, grinning from ear to ear.

“And Pearl,” the last one says with a sad motherly smile.

Aileen forced her lips to stay peeled back in a smile. “Who would like to go first?”

“I would!” Tammy pipes up.

Sammy and Pearl quickly agree to let Tammy go first.

Tammy breezes into the room, ranting vivaciously about how much she loves the city. She sits down in the large chair in the corner, adjacent to the massage table. Aileen does the usual. Asks Tammy if she has any areas she wants to target and her pressure tolerance. Tammy says she just wants a nice, easy back massage with light pressure.

It’s the only mercy Aileen is going to get today. Light pressure hurts her knuckles and wrists far less.

Aileen leaves the room while Tammy strips down. After a few minutes, she comes back in. Tammy is face down on the table. Aileen oils up her hands and begins massaging the lower back, lightly, as instructed. In Aileen’s experience, massage therapy is part massage, part actual therapy. In the past, some of her clients told her stuff she wasn’t paid enough to handle. And in Aileen’s experience, the peppiest ones tend to have the darkest stories. Except for the dark stories in the hotel spa usually involved cheating, lying, or straight-up malice.

Not this woman, though. Throughout the entire massage, she rants about how happy she is to be with her friends. From the sounds of things, they’ve practically grown up together.

Tammy keeps raving and raving, mostly about about her friends, who get along like three peas in a pod.

And Aileen’s painkiller has kicked in, too. Perfect.

Aileen finishes up with Tammy, who practically skips out. Pearl is next. Unlike Tammy, who had a bright presence, Pearl brings an air of poorly contained despair into the room. When she speaks, she keeps her blue eyes on the ground.

Aileen asks what she needs, and Pearl utters something relaxing—yes, anything, just relaxing.

Aileen decides to apply light pressure (mostly from her own damn pain) with a focus on Pearl’s upper and lower back muscles. She exits the room, lets Pearl change, and enters, beginning work on her back, which is angry. The muscles are full of knots and wound up so tight that Aileen sacrifices some of her well-being to apply a bit more pressure.

Pearl barely speaks. Until Aileen starts working out a particularly aggressive knot in her upper right shoulder, just under the blade.

“I want to be happy,” Pearl laments. “Thirty-five years we’ve known each other. That’s a special thing. When you’re young, you think everything will last forever. I hate to break it to you, dear, but the cliché is true: all good things come to an end. The only constant in my life has been these girls. They’re sisters to me.

“Sweet Tammy has been raving about this trip for weeks. She just loves spending time together. You know she’s a cancer survivor?”

Aileen raises her eyebrows. “That’s incredible.”

“She went into remissions just a few months back. We’re here to celebrate, and I’m ruining it. I’m ruining everything.” Her back tenses under Aileen’s touch. “I wish I could be happy, but I can’t help but feel like…like my husband is cheating on me.”

“Oh no!” Aileen blurts. “That’s awful. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“We’ve been together for thirty years. We’re not unhappy, but we’re not happy, either. Things were good for a time, but about twenty years ago, something just…changed.”

Aileen works through the knot, knowing it will only draw out more despair, but oddly, Aileen starts to feel lighter. Pearl isn’t just bragging about the Dior purse she swanned in the room with. She’s talking about something real…and something juicy she can tell Jasmin later.

Aileen applies just enough pressure to feel the knot loosen, but it won’t fully release. She presses harder, and finally, the knot releases. The overall tension in her shoulder eases, but there’s tightness still there. Pearl isn’t alright—not yet.

“I hope I don’t ruin our trip,” Pearl says. “I know I’ve been depressing and quiet. I can’t tell them why, though. They both have perfect marriages. They won’t understand. Please don’t say anything to Sammy.”

“My lips are sealed. And I’m sure you won’t ruin the trip. Tammy was so happy you’re here with her.”

Pearl’s entire back loosens at this. “I’m happy to hear that.”

Aileen wraps up with Pearl and invites the next client in: Sammy.

Same thing. What area? How much pressure?

Sammy wants a lot of pressure on her back, in particular her upper back. Aileen dreads the pain in her wrists, but smiles and agrees as always.

Aileen exits the room and goes to reception. She listens to a song played on a harp and sighs, hoping Pearl will be alright. After a few minutes, Aileen heads back to the treatment room and enters.

Back to work. She starts on Sammy’s lower back.

Sammy has good muscle density and tone. She’s fit. “Do you lift weights?” Aileen can’t help but ask.

“I do. Have been for years. I was a tennis player for a long time.” Sammy has an intense aura about her. “I’ll sometimes still play a game if the weather is nice, though.” Sammy pauses. “Did Pearl say anything in here?”

“Oh, not really,” Aileen says quickly. She might gossip with Jasmin, but she wasn’t about to lose her job over this drama.

“She seems sad,” Sammy presses.

“I think her back was bothering her.”

“No, she’s sad. Her husband is cheating on her.” At this, Sammy’s back loosens, but only slightly. “Has been for years.”

“Oh, that’s not good!” Aileen blurts a bit too dramatically.

“I would know,” Sammy says, her tone dark and filled with guilt. “I’m the one sleeping with him.”

Aileen freezes for a brief second, but recovers, letting out a fake cough before she continues working. “I see.”

“I know. Judge me all you want. But you don’t understand. You’re too young. Charles and I were meant to be together. We dated long before he and Pearl did.

“But then he went to work abroad. Got a job in government. He was gone for five years, and I didn’t think he was coming back. It wasn’t like it is now when I was young. There was no Facebook, and long-distance calls cost more than you make in an hour, I bet! He might as well have died.

“So, I started dating another man in the town. He wasn’t the most interesting person. Nothing like Charles, but he was kind. I married him, like an idiot.”

Aileen thought but bit her tongue as she ground her thumbs into Sammy’s knotted muscles, which were likely wound up from deceit.

“I loved Charles, but I had to move on. I finally reached a point where I accepted he was gone from my life. Until he came back.”

At this, Sammy’s entire back tenses. Aileen places her hand on it, saying try to relax in her most soothing voice possible. But Sammy doesn’t.

“I was married when he came back to Canada. We couldn’t just get divorced back then, either. So, you know what he does? Dates Pearl. Marries Pearl. Pearl! Plain Pearl! I love her, but she’s—”

Sammy’s back tenses so much that Aileen practically has to fight it, her carpal tunnel burning like she’d exposed her tendons to an open flame.

“Charles and I were forced to be around each other a lot, on account of Pearl and I being so close. She asked if I was alright with it, and stupidly, I lied because I was married! What else was I supposed to do?

“I tried to stay away. Charles and I both did. We lasted ten years. I’m proud of that. But sure enough, we were drawn back to each other, just like we were when we were teenagers. It started again when we were drunk at a party. Pearl was passed out in bed, and it was just him and I left. The next thing you know, we’re at it like rabbits, right there on the couch!”

Aileen feels sick but keeps working out a doughy knot in Sammy’s lower back.

“After that, we seized any chance we got. Oh, how we lied. To our spouses. To ourselves. Said we’d stop, only to go right back to it.

“We couldn’t get divorced. Not with the kids. Not with the houses. And not with our friends.” Her shoulder might as well be cement, and Aileen presses down harder on it, focusing on a tough knot in the lower rhomboid. Sharp, fresh pain shoots from Aileen’s knuckles up to her elbows. “We love each other.”

“That must have been hard,” Aileen says as neutrally as possible.

“I—” Sammy sounds like she’s about to tear up. “I—I feel so horrible. I might as well be the one with cancer. Pearl’s not stupid. She’s known for some time something is wrong. She’s confided in me, and I’ve lied straight to her face. I—I wanted to tell her,” Aileen feels Sammy’s rhomboid loosen slightly, “but—but she’d hate me, and so would Tammy. It’s been twenty years of lies. I told myself that after this trip, I’m coming clean. Charles agrees. We’re going to tell her the truth. I just—I want one last time where we’re happy together. Tammy survived cancer, and I don’t want to ruin our celebration.”

The weight of Sammy’s story makes Aileen feel sick with second-hand guilt, and the aura in the room turns dark and sour.

“Pearl knows something is off. Are you sure she didn’t say anything to you about it?”

“She didn’t,” Aileen lies, pressing on a knot in her trapezoid. She holds her thumb painfully in place until the muscle releases. “Better?”

“Yes. Much better. I feel great.”

“Well, that’s time.” Aileen rushes to the door. “I’ll let you get changed. Take your time and don’t stand up too quickly.”

Aileen opens the door and rushes out of the room. She sits at the front desk, waiting for Sammy to come out and pay.

Aileen stares at the schedule on the computer. She stares for so long her eyes burn. Poor Pearl. She knew something was wrong and it was eating her alive. But her best friend—how could she?

Aileen shakes her head and focuses on her schedule. She has no more appointments until the afternoon. That’s good. She needs a break. She might even go to the hotel bar and take a shot during lunch.

Sammy comes out, relaxed. She pulls out a Coach wallet and pays her bill in silence, leaving Aileen a significant tip.

“Thanks for coming in today,” Aileen says automatically. “Take care and enjoy your stay here!”

“Actually,” Sammy frowns, “I was wondering…”

Sammy stares at her with her intense, bloodshot eyes. Aileen knows Sammy’s deepest, darkest secret, and one call to Pearl’s room and Aileen could ruin their friendship. And with her muscle density, Sammy could curb-stomp Aileen with ease.

Worse, Sammy could make up a lie and get her fired. And Sammy is a good liar—good enough to hide a twenty-year affair with her best friend’s husband.

“We don’t come into the city often, and I meant to ask earlier—do you have any restaurant recommendations?”

Aileen’s mouth falls open, but years of customer service experience allows her to recompose herself quickly. “I-I know it sounds boring, but the hotel restaurant is one of the best in the city.”

“Thank you. Well, I hope you have a nice rest of your day, dear.” Sammy turns and drifts off, tugging at the waist of her dress and pulling it perfectly into place as she disappears into the glossy hotel lobby, her shoulders perfectly relaxed.

The second door of the spa opens and a snotty-looking businessman comes out, paying with a black Amex. He presses for Jasmin’s number, and after three polite declines from Aileen, he finally leaves.

Jasmin leaves the treatment room and rushes up to Aileen. “He asked me to do blow with him! What is wrong with these people?”

Aileen blinks, refreshing the schedule.

“What about Sammy, Tammy, and,” Jasmin snorts, “Pearl.”

Aileen opens her mouth, then shuts it.

“Well?” Jasmin asks expectantly.

“Tammy survived cancer. This is their girl’s trip. I guess they’ve known each other for thirty-five years.”

“And they came here?” Jasmin laughs. She sounds vindictive. “What else?”

“Pearl—she—she’s not thrilled to be here, mostly because—well her husband—”

“Is he cheating? God, not another one.” Jasmin keeps laughing. “Remind me never to get married.”

Aileen shakes her head, forcing her expression to go neutral. Pearl’s pain was real and there was nothing funny about it. “She just misses him.”

“Friends for thirty-five years—you sure one of them wasn’t sleeping with the other’s husband?”

The color drains from Aileen’s face.

“No way!” Jasmin shouts.

“Actually,” Aileen stands up, “there wasn’t anything. They have been friends for thirty-five years and honestly,” Aileen heads towards the breakroom, her shoulders dropping, “I think that’s pretty special.”

Never thought I’d see the day

March 29, 2023March 29, 2023 Ava.BlackLeave a comment

My first novel is done. What a journey. I’m so damn proud of myself. I spent probably too much time writing it, but I had to go through this process to learn. I’m so glad I did it.

Freedom for All – Entry #3

November 3, 2022November 3, 2022 Ava.BlackLeave a comment

Dark Ava is back. Man, that didn’t take long.

The theme this week is “Best Laid Plans,” and I chose to write on the prompt “write about a plan that goes wrong, but for the better.” I’m posting my story rather than immediately jumping into the details surrounding its creation. I’ll post my thoughts on how/why I wrote it at the bottom.

Before I start, I will say it’s inspired by one of my favourite songs, “River Below” by Billy Talent. If you haven’t heard of them, go listen! They’re a great Canadian punk-rock band and I don’t care if you say it’s emo, I love them. Always have.

Anyways, here it is.

TRIGGER WARNING: mental health, suicide, and terrorism.

FREEDOM FOR ALL

The twisted bundle of wires is a brain and the hot soldering iron is my scalpel. Stolen books on bombmaking are opened and scattered around my operating table. It’s meticulous and messy work, but like any operation, it will save lives. The world, in fact.

It’s been almost two decades since the Elites developed their mind control program. At the start, they packaged it as a social website, tricking people into using it with shiny bells and whistles. Then, when smartphones became popular, the Elites transformed their program into an addictive app.

It didn’t take long for the world to eat it up. It spread, propagating like a virus. Now, everyone is infected. They’re part of the hive mind, enslaved and doomed to follow the Elites’ orders for all of eternity.

In any population, there will always be outliers. Ones that can’t be controlled. I’m one of them. It’s my purpose to stop the Elites and save the world.

I’m not alone. There are more outliers across the world, but only a few. We call ourselves the Crimson Warriors. We operate on the dark web, but even that’s not fully safe these days.

The Elites think one day they’ll control everyone, including us outliers, but they’re wrong. I’m the chosen outlier. I’m destined to break the chains and shackles. It’s a big task, but I don’t have a choice. I need to do this for everyone.

My friends and family rejected me when they found out I wanted to rebel against the Elites. My wife left me and took custody of my kid. My parents cut me out. I haven’t seen them in years. They’re under the Elites’ control, and until I act, they’ll remain lost to me.

Even though I’ve been abandoned, I will sacrifice myself for my family. For everyone. I’ll be a hero once this is over; famous for liberating the planet. I’ll be dead, but I’ll be everywhere. They’ll erect statues of me. Moreover, my family will be free. Everyone will be free.

The Crimson Warriors and I bought experimental black-market tech called Neurolinks that allow us to communicate through our thoughts. If I turn my eyecam on, they can see what I see, and we can hear each other in our heads. It’s the only safe way left to communicate. The Elites watch everything—phones, emails, texts, apps, internet. But they can’t hack the Neurolinks. Not yet, at least.

I pull more wires out of my toolkit. Explosives are part of this contraption, but it’s safe. I made sure when I researched and double-checked with the Crimson Warriors.

Cross those wires, Big Echo whispers in my head. If you get caught, they’ll try to dismantle it. But if you cross the wires, they won’t know which ones to cut. It could buy you some time.

I listen and cross the wires, soldering them into place. The scent is comforting.

Big Echo is a war vet. He was on a bomb squad and knows a thing or two about making them. Before the Neurolink, I had to do my own research. Now that I have Big Echo to help, things are going much better.

Mine’s ready, Rivers, Honor’s Bastard says. I’ll take out their New York Office. Big Echo, you got Miami. And you, Rivers—you’re the main show. Corporate Tower, downtown San Francisco.

“Roger,” I say out loud.

You got this, boss, Honor’s Bastard says. Man, you’re going to be a legend after this. You’ll be front-page news. Rivers, the savior of society! They’ll call you the Liberator! Has the ring of a superhero, doesn’t it?

You are a hero, boss, Big Echo says.

“Well, we are a team, boys.” I finish up the last of the work on the explosive.

Thanks to you. You’re the mastermind, Rivers. We all know it. No need to be humble.

A few other voices cheer in agreement, and I smile for the first time in months.

Freedom, someone says. Freedom for all.

“Freedom for all,” I repeat, still grinning.

***

D-day. My backpack is heavy with explosives as I approach the Elites’ headquarters. It’s raining and cold. Downtown San Francisco is busy and littered with human feces like the corporate cesspool it is.

The sidewalks and roads are congested, like always. Ever since the Elites mandated electric cars a year ago, traffic has gotten quieter. I don’t mind electric cars, but I miss having a choice. I miss being free.

The normal morning rush lets me blend in. I wear my old suit and tie from when I was a corporate slave myself. It’s a cloak I must wear so I can unleash my dagger. I’m not a wolf in sheep’s clothing—I’m a savior in the skin of the enslaved.

I pull out my phone. It’s offline because its only purpose is to act as a detonator. The app I designed is cliché—it’s a giant red button on the screen that, when touched, will activate the bomb in my backpack.

Cliché or not, all I need to do is get in the building and press it. No one will care about my creativity once I liberate them. They’ll just see me as the hero I am.

Despite running a company that controls the world, the Elites have little security. I have been scoping out their headquarters for weeks and haven’t seen anything that poses a threat. Individuals from all walks of life can stroll in unimpeded. I suppose you don’t need protection when you have everyone under your thumb.

Their arrogance will be their undoing. There are still outliers. There’s still me—no, us, the Crimson Warriors.

Neurolinks online, Big Echo says. What do you say, boss? Ready for liberation?

“Freedom for all,” I mutter under my breath. “Freedom for all.”

Freedom for all! A chorus of voices echoes in my head.

“Freedom for all,” I repeat louder this time, unable to help myself. A nearby woman gives me a strange look, her eyes dead and empty like all those enslaved.

I ignore her. It’s not like she can hear me. The app probably filtered out my words, just like any non-conformity.

Careful boss, Big Echo warns. That woman seemed a bit surprised by you.

“She’s been programmed,” I say under my breath. “Her eyes were empty. That’s how you tell. Dead eyes, Big Echo. Remember that.”

Roger, Big Echo says.

I’m onsite, Honour’s Bastard says. Ready to detonate.

The Elite’s headquarters is only a few blocks away. I walk as fast as I can. My burden is hefty, but my resolve carries me forward with ease.

I think about my life as I weave through the crowds—it’s not much I’m losing. Not really. My ex-wife was taken by the Elites years ago. My parents, too. My kid is already programmed and online, a corporate slave to be.

If my sacrifice frees them, it will be worth it. Either way, I’m never seeing them again.

You’re close, boss, Honor’s Bastard says. Once you’re onsite, we’ll commence our plan and detonate in unison.

I approach the entrance of the massive skyscraper. It reflects the grey sky and cuts into the clouds, well above all the other corporate towers. Marble steps lead to the entrance like a dais, and I can smell the chlorine from their indoor fountain despite the stench outside.

The enslaved bump past me, all pulling out ID badges and chatting to each other about work. At times, I’ve found myself envying them. They don’t have the same responsibility that I do.

“Hey,” someone nearby says, “you lost?”

I turn around to see a large man in a black suit and dark sunglasses looking down at me. Security. How have I not seen them before? He sports an earpiece and I recognize his shades as TechGlasses. They don’t have x-ray vision, but rather have facial recognition and direct access to corporate databases. They can pull up someone’s profile instantly.

Those glasses can identify you, boss. Get out of there!

“I’m late for a meeting,” I say, looking at his black, polished shoes.

“With whom?” I hear his glasses beeping. “I ran recognition on you, and it seems like you’ve been unemployed for some time now, Mr. Rivers.”

Shit, Big Echo says. Say you’re an entrepreneur.

“I’m an entrepreneur.” I square my shoulders, feigning haughty arrogance. “I have new tech I want to show to your marketing team. An algorithm, actually. We booked this meeting weeks ago. Listen, if they’re not interested anymore, I can take it to your competitors out in Silicon Valley.”

“Let me confirm with their team,” the man says.

This is bad, boss. I can’t hack their system fast enough to create a fake meeting.

What do I do? I ask in my head.

Run inside. If you go fast enough, you can still detonate.

I wrap my sweaty hand around the detonator in my pocket.

“Yeah, I got a guy here. Says he’s an entrepreneur with a new algorithm for marketing?”’ Security asks, speaking into their earpiece. “Uh-huh. Yep. Got it.”

Freedom for all, Big Echo says.

They took your wife and kid, Rivers, Honor’s Bastard says. Your whole life. They took your whole LIFE.

He’s right. My family was my whole life. My heartbeat picks up and my sweaty grasp tightens around my phone.

It’s the only way to free them, Big Echo says. You know it’s the only way, boss. Some people might die, but they’re all enslaved, anyways. And no war is won without sacrifice. No one obtains freedom without blood.

My heart races. The security guard frowns, his shoulders tensing. I notice two more coming down the stairs towards me, each as large and intimidating as the next. They’re also wearing TechGlasses, keeping their dead eyes hidden.

They’re onto you, Big Echo says. It’s now or never, boss.

I think of my kid. My wife. Their faces. I want one last moment with them before I detonate. I remember the day my son was born. I smile. What a beautiful day.

You have to go now! Big Echo shouts. FREEDOM FOR ALL!

FREEDOM FOR ALL, the chorus screams.

“FREEDOM FOR ALL!” I bellow as I run.

I dash up the stairs as I hear someone shout stop him. I shove myself through the glass doors. I pull out my phone and unlock it with my fingerprint. The app pops up. The red button flashes.

Now or never, boss!

Shaking, I lower my finger to detonate.

Then I seize and convulse. My fingers cramp and my hand turns into an involuntary claw. Pain ripples through me, searing and electric, and I hear the crowd gasp as I collapse. My phone slides away.

A taser. Fuck! It will throw off my Neurolink—maybe even fry it!

A body slams on top of me and their weight crushes my ribs. I can’t breathe. I’m still convulsing. The scorching, crushing pain is distant, like it belongs to someone else.

I still have my goal! I have to liberate them! It’s up to me! I’m the only one who can do it!

I stare at my phone on the shiny tiles. The red button flashes. I roar as I try to reach for it, but the security guard grabs my wrist and yanks my arm behind my back.

“It’s a bomb!” A bystander cries, and screams erupt everywhere. Feet stomp past me as the crowd rushes out the door. Nearby, glass smashes. Sirens wail.

It’s over.

The crushing weight is too much. I try, one last time, to breathe, but it’s futile. I black out.

***

I come to with an oxygen mask on my face. Blue and red lights flash all around me. My mouth is dry. I taste iron. My vision is blurry. I try to move, but my arms are restrained. The smell of chlorine is gone, replaced by that of sterility.

I look down and see I’m strapped to a bed in the back of an ambulance. There are IVs hooked up to me, pumping poison into my veins. Probably full of nanobots. They’re already starting the programming. I’m woozy, sluggish, and stuck in place. I can’t fight it.

“Lucky we got him in time,” someone says. “His bag was full of explosives, which were connected to a device that let him detonate with his phone. He could have taken out the whole floor with what he was packing, killing hundreds, if not thousands.”

“Who is he?” I spot a grizzled man in a suit talking to the security guard from earlier. The newcomer has a gun and badge strapped to his waist. A cop. He’s drenched from the rain, his balding head shiny and damp. He has sharp brown eyes, though; unlike everyone else, he doesn’t look enslaved.

“Facial recognition says he’s Tom Rivers. He’s thirty-one and unemployed. We ran him through our security system. He’s been hanging around here for weeks.”

“What do you know about him?” the cop asks.

“He used to be a software engineer at a big tech company but was fired two years ago after he started spouting off about mind control conspiracies. His wife divorced him and he lost custody of his kid shortly after. Doesn’t look like he has had contact with his parents since then, either. And despite his history of mental health problems, he hasn’t filled a prescription in a long time.”

I try to speak, but my tongue is too thick to make words. I need to tell them that I don’t have mental health problems. The Elite made that all up once they found out I was onto them. They even tried to hide nanobots in the pills!

If I’m right, and this cop is an outlier, maybe I can pass the message to him. I try communicating through Neurolink, but I’m met with silence.

You there, boss? Big Echo responds, his voice slow and fuzzy. We got busted, too. The Elites knew. There must have been a rat. Rivers? You there?

“I won’t ask how you got his private medical information.” The cop shifts on his feet, looking uncomfortable. “Anything else?”

“He has a website called the ‘Crimson Warriors.’ It’s a conspiracy theory website. Says that social media is a form of mind control that’s enslaved the population, and all the tech companies are in on it. Calls CEOs ‘the Elites.’”

“Anyone else using the site?”

“There’s some traffic, but not a lot of engagement. Based on our analysis it would appear he’s a one-man show.”

The cop shakes his head. “No such thing as privacy anymore.”

“If it wasn’t for us,” A nearby man in a suit—a dead-eyed Elite!—chimes in, “you’d be chasing your tails for weeks trying to figure out this psycho.”

The cop sighs. “Anything else, then?”

“Recently,” the security guard continues, “he posted about new tech called ‘Neurolinks,’ saying it lets him communicate with his network globally, but based on what we know, there’s no such thing as a fully functional Neurolink.”

Shit! They know, boss! No! The Neurolinks were all we had left!

“Any chance there could be?” The cop asks.

“No, that tech is still years off.” The Elite rolls his dead eyes, lying like the devil he is. “We’ve done a lot of testing, but it never goes well. The subjects usually die.”

“Right. I remember reading about those poor test monkeys in the news,” the cop says. “My guess is this asshole has untreated schizophrenia.”

“He does,” Security adds, quieter this time. “But you didn’t hear it from us.”

“They’re lying,” I croak. All heads swivel to me. “They’re all lying. They’re lying!” I thrash against the restraints. They have to know! I can still get through to them! “You’re all slaves! Slaves to the Elites! I was trying to help you! I just want you to be free! I want freedom for all! Freedom for all!”

“Give him a sedative.” The cop sounds bored, not enlightened like he should be! “And whatever other drugs he needs.”

Boss, they’re going to cut your Neurolink! You have to fight them! You’ll be as lost as all the other enslaved else if you don’t do something!

I struggle against the restraints as I watch fluid flow into my arm. I flex all my muscles, hoping I can squeeze it out. I grind my teeth. I howl like a wolf calling to the moon.

Fight it, boss!

The restraints cut into my wrists, but I won’t stop fighting. I don’t want to be enslaved! I don’t want to end up like these dead-eyed sheep!

I watch helplessly as the paramedic injects something into my IV—nanobots! I feel them crawl into my veins, cold and invasive.

No! I have to stay free! It’s the only way my wife and kid stand a chance!

My vision darkens. The voices fade. My head rolls to the side, my eyes half-open.

It’s over, I tell my team. I failed. We lost. I’m sorry. You have to go on without me. Detonate if you can. We can still…save…them…

For the first time in years, I’m met with silence. Tears roll down my cheeks. The Elite…the…oh god. It wasn’t real, was it?

Wasn’t it?

Author’s Notes

Soooo…I’ll start by saying I recognize this is a pretty dark topic, but I really, really love doing unreliable narrator stories. When I saw the prompts this week I felt uninspired at first, but then I started thinking – what about exploring the idea of someone who believes they’re doing the right thing, but in reality, what they’re actually doing is really destructive? And when they’re caught, it seems like they’ve lost, but as the reader, you find out that their plans being thwarted is actually a good thing.

And thus, “Freedom for All” was born.

There’s been quite a bit of discourse recently around colonization of the mind on part of social media and tech companies. Someone recently commented that capitalism started as colonizing the planet, but now that the land has all been colonized (gross), the next place is the mind. Obviously, space comes after, but until that’s feasible, minds it is!

GROSS, but I kind of agree. Social media takes your time and sells it to advertisers. The goal is to get you to spend as much time on your phone/computer as they can. The more time you spend on social media, the more they can gather data on you and build an advertising profile, which they then sell for $$$.

If you want, you can see the profile Google has built on you. I checked mine out, and it was eerily accurate.

I do not, however, think that anyone is mind controlling us through social media (anymore than the next person, at least). But Tom Rivers, an untreated schizophrenic, sees things a different way. The story is set in the near future, maybe like 2025-2030ish? In his reality, everyone is brainwashed, and it’s up to him to sacrifice himself to save them. But in everyone else’s reality, they’re just addicted to their phone, and tech companies are using it to profit. No mind control – just regular old manipulation.

If you read the lyrics from River Below, you’ll see the inspiration I took from it. God, I love Billy Talent. Absolute kings.

Anyways, just because I’m paranoid – THIS IS JUST A STORY AND DOES NOT REFLECT THE VIEWS/DESIRES OF THE AUTHOR IN ANY WAY.

Terrorism is bad and everyone that needs medication should take it. As someone with Jewish heritage, I absolutely hate the notion of conspiracies and lizard people and chem trails and MK ultra programming and whatever else there is out there. So again, if it’s not clear, THESE ARE NOT MY VIEWS.

Thanks ❤

Billy Talent Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/08yf5A2nS4XEeNvabDXqyg

Kitty, Kitty – Entry #2

October 27, 2022October 30, 2022 Ava.BlackLeave a comment

Back again with another Reedsy entry. It hasn’t been approved and put on their website yet, but I’ll update the post with the link once it is.

The theme this week was Halloween or in their words, “I’ve Got Goosebumps.” I chose to write on the prompt “Start your story with someone encountering a black cat.”

Honestly, I love cats. This is undoubtedly my future:

Eleanor Abernathy, you queen. Source: https://simpsonswiki.com/wiki/Crazy_Cat_Lady

I also hate that every Halloween I have to keep my cat inside because people are fucked up. Especially if my cat happens to be black. I also don’t like the horror trope that black cats are “bad luck” or “evil.”

As I’m writing this, I’m having flashbacks to big daddy King’s Pet Sematary. Great book, but look at this cover:

My heart bleeds for the poor baby kitties that happened to be born with the wrong coat of fur. So when writing this story, I decided to take a different approach with a lil twist. It’s probably a cliché twist, but I don’t care. I did it for the cats!

I’ve also been feeling abnormally positive lately. Normally, when I write, my books have sad endings. I used to find happy endings annoying, if I’m honest. Recently, however, I’ve found myself writing more positive stories. I don’t really know why-maybe it’s the sunny Ontario weather.

Kitty, Kitty

Anna wiped her brow, calves burning as she rushed down the crowded Toronto street. She was late to a get-together, as she quite often was. Although it was the end of October, the weather remained persistently hot, and the tall skyscrapers blocked Lake Ontario’s breeze, insulating the heat. Thanks to the weird weather, Anna had spent far too much time struggling to pick out an appropriate outfit.

Excuses aside, the fact remained that Anna was late. Again. Today was their friend Ahsan’s birthday, too. She walked a bit faster, urging her short legs to go. She swore as she dodged someone with their eyes glued to their phone. Anna picked up the pace, weaving between the crowd, until a line of burly, slow-moving brodudes blocked her path.

Anna sighed and stopped, sweat trickling down her back. Why was she stressing so hard about this? Ahsan wouldn’t care if she was late—he’d just be happy to see her.

She caught her breath, taking in her busy surroundings. The sidewalks were packed, and the wide streets were filled with cars, driving erratically and honking aggressively, as they quite often did.

Anna glanced at the sidewalk, the clear sky, then into an alley next to her. It was lined with dumpsters and covered in graffiti. Despite being dimly lit, Anna spotted a set of bright teal eyes belonging to a scruffy black cat. It was bigger than most cats, with short fur and a long tail.

Anna felt an anxious pang in her chest. It wasn’t that she believed black cats were bad luck. She just couldn’t help but wonder if superstitions existed for a reason. When she was a kid, her mother broke a mirror, and sure enough, the next seven years had been hell. Her mother got divorced, lost her job, even got cancer. It was like the universe was against her for a while.

Everything was fine now, though. Her mother was in remission, had a great career, and had even remarried. And yet, the image of the shattered mirror hung in Anna’s mind, reminding her to always be cognizant of superstitions, even if they seemed ridiculous.

She shook her head. It was just a black cat with gorgeous neon eyes, quite like the surrounding graffiti. It meowed, watching her. Anna took an unconscious step towards it, hand outreached.

“Watch out!” someone shouted. Anna turned and saw a car spinning out of control, tires burning and breaks squealing as it ricocheted towards her. She shielded her face, letting out a scream of her own.

The car slammed perpendicular against the two buildings that formed the alley. Anna slowly dropped her hands, heart racing. It had stopped not even inch from her. Its driver was inside, blood pouring down his forehead, the front end of the vehicle totalled.

“Are you alright?” a bystander asked, their voice muted by the ringing in Anna’s ears.

Anna turned around to see the black cat. It hadn’t moved, nor did it seem phased by the chaos. It narrowed its brilliant teal eyes, then bounced away.

Emergency services showed up, and Anna was let go by the paramedics. Miraculously, she had no injuries. Rather than take the subway, she walked home numbly, barely aware of her surroundings as day transitioned to night. Eventually, she reached her apartment building and pulled out her keys, hands shaking.

She felt a creep run up her spine and looked over her shoulder to see yet another large, black cat with glowing teal eyes watching her. It couldn’t be the same one, could it? Anna swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Go away,” she said hoarsely. The cat remained in place. “I said go!” She shouted this time, stomping her foot. The cat didn’t budge.

Anna charged towards it, shoulders heaving. She froze at the sound of a nearby crash. She spotted a smashed flowerpot behind her. Red flowers, dirt, and broken pieces covered the sidewalk like blood and guts.

“What was that?” Anna heard a sliding glass door open. “Did you hear that, Ed? It sounded like—oh, shit! My pansies!” A blonde woman Anna recognized as her neighbour hung over the railing of the balcony. “Are you ok? Did it hit you?”

Anna looked back towards where the cat had been, but it was gone.

“Hey, are you’re alright?”

“I’m good!” Anna called out, shaking worse than she had been previously. She stepped over the broken flowerpot, opening the entrance to her building.

Thankfully her apartment was on the first floor. She darted up the stairs and ran down the hallway, then jammed her key into her front door, opened it, and slammed it behind her, locking it.

The superstitions were real, just like the damn mirror. Anna didn’t care what anyone thought. That black cat was evil, and it was trying to kill her.

“Anna?” She heard her roommate, Jasleen, get up and bound towards the entrance, her black hair in a messy bun. “Ahsan messaged me. He said you never showed up. Are you alright? You look pale.”

Anna stared at the dirty linoleum. The cat had unusual eyes. Was it a ghost? Or…or a demon?

“Anna?”

“Sorry.” Anna blinked several times. “I almost got hit by a car—”

“What?”

“I’m alright!” Anna said through a nervous laugh. “Fine, just fine. I need to lay down, though.” She pushed past Jasleen and opened the door to her cramped, messy room. She threw down her purse. looked up at her bedroom window, and gasped.

“What is it?” Jasleen called.

The cat. The black cat. It was sitting on her windowsill.

“Go away!” Anna screamed, hurtling towards the window in an attempt to scare it off. She tripped on the cord of her hairdryer, flew forward, and landed on the clothes-ridden floor. Groaning, she opened her eyes, and spotted an empty glass next to the tip of her nose.

“Oh my god!” Jasleen shouted. “Anna—you could have died! I told you not to leave glasses on the floor like that!” She swept beside her and picked it up, shoulders tense.

“It’s trying to kill me!” Anna blurted. She pushed herself against her dresser, and it wobbled, dropping a pile of books down beside her. “See?!” Anna pointed at the scattered books.

Jasleen looked around the room, confused. “What?”

“The cat!” Anna sprung up and looked to the window, only to see that the cat was gone.

Jasleen looked at the window, then back at Anna, then back at the window. “Are you sure you’re ok?”

Anna stared at the empty glass in Jasleen’s hands. If she’d landed on, it would have smashed straight into her face. Probably taken out an eye.

But the idea that a cat was somehow doing this? She needed to lay down, rest, and try to forget about everything.

“I-I think I need to lay down,” Anna said.

“Did you hit your head?”

“No, I’m alright. The paramedics said so. Just…I’m a bit shook up, is all.”

Jasleen stared at her long and hard, then nodded. Ever the good friend, she picked up Anna’s books, then headed towards the door. She nearly tripped on the hairdryer cord on her way out. “Clean your room. Seriously. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I will,” Anna mumbled.

Jasleen gave her a sympathetic smile. “Rest up, and I can help you take care of this tomorrow. Night, Anna.” She gently shut the door.

Although it was early in the evening, Anna fell asleep almost instantly. She dreamt of screeching tires, sliding cars, and teal eyes. She woke with a start, the sun spilling in through her curtains.

It’s just a damn cat and a whole lot of weird coincidences, Anna tried to reassure herself, but she still felt anxious. In an effort to fight it, she got out of bed and showered.

Drenched, she stared at herself in the foggy bathroom mirror. She noticed a small crack on it and immediately thought of her Mom’s bad luck streak.

Just a cat. She went into her room and blow-dried her hair, putting the dryer away afterwards.

After Jasleen woke up and showered, they cleaned Anna’s room until it was spotless. Anna took Jasleen out for sushi and picked up the bill as thanks. They left the restaurant and wandered their noisy downtown neighbourhood, drinking ice coffees under the hot sun.

“I don’t give a shit what anyone says,” Jasleen said after a sip, “climate change is here. This weather is weird as fuck.”

“I know,” Anna said. “Like, it shouldn’t be ice coffee weather this time of year!”

“Right?!” Jasleen shouted, and they ranted about it at some length, then switched to talking about their latest Tinder exploits.

Anna felt her shoulders relax as Jasleen went on about a horrible date she’d had. Just a cat, she reminded herself, smiling as she sipped the last of her ice coffee.

They turned a corner near their apartment building, and Anna froze. The black cat. It was outside the building, teal eyes glowing despite the bright sun.

“See it?!” Anna shouted, pointing.

“What, the cat?” Jasleen asked, taking a loud sip from the dredges of her ice coffee.

“Yeah!” Anna’s heart raced. The cat twitched its tail, teal eyes mocking her.

Fuck this. Anna lifted her arm to huck the empty plastic cup at it, hoping to scare it away for good, but Jasleen grabbed her bicep and lowered her arm.

“Girl, what the fuck?!” Jasleen said, letting go of her arm as Anna backed away, panting. “You seriously about to hurt a cat?”

“It’s trying to kill me, Jasleen, I swear—”

Before Anna could explain, she was cut off by a loud shriek. A woman on an electric scooter whipped between her and Jasleen. Anna bristled, ready to accost her for using the sidewalk instead of the bike lane, but the girl crashed into a garbage can. She flew over the handlebars and landed on the pavement of the busy road. A car swerved and crashed into another, its windshield exploding.

The girl from the scooter sat on the pavement, covered in bloody road rash, her arm bent at an awkward angle. She let out a piercing cry, eyes wide in horror at the sight of her mangled arm.

Jasleen dropped her plastic cup, the ice rattling as it hit the ground.

“See?!” Anna blurted. “It’s the cat, Jasleen! I saw it last night, before I almost fell on the glass in my bedroom, and yesterday, I saw it before the car almost hit me! And—and a pot of pansies almost fell on my fucking head, too!”

Jasleen wasn’t listening, though. Her brown eyes were wide and glued to the scene of the accident, the colour had drained from her face.

Anna looked back to see the cat still watching her. Its eyes narrowed again, reminding her of a smirking demon. Clearly, it thought this was funny. Anger, fresh and hot, scourged through Anna.

Sirens wailed nearby. Anna marched towards the cat, plastic cup brandished.

“Hey!” Jasleen grabbed her arm. “What are you doing? Just wait—there’s glass everywhere.”

“The cat, Jasleen!” Anna hissed. “It did this! I’m telling you!”

Jasleen calmly looked over Anna’s shoulder towards the cat. “It’s just a cat, Anna. Poor thing looks half-starved.”

“It’s bad luck!” Anna dropped her cup and took Jasleen’s shoulders. “It’s probably Satan, or something worse!”

“Satan?!” Jasleen was looking at Anna like she was insane. “Oh god, girl. Black cats aren’t evil. You know how messed up it is that people are afraid of them?” Jasleen shook her head, eyes filling with pity. “Shelters put them down all the time. It’s so sad.”

Jasleen sighed. “Listen, you’ve had a lot of bad luck the last couple days, but it’s just that. Bad luck. A black cat didn’t cause it. Random chance did. Just be thankful you’re not the one on the ground right now.”

Random chance? Hell no. It was real, just like the broken mirror. Anna had proof, she just had to make Jasleen understand.

Jasleen, ever the perceptive one, seemed to read Anna’s mind. “You said the cat was there when you almost got hit yesterday?”

Anna nodded, her hoop earrings flapping up and down.

“And again, when you fell in your room?”

Anna nodded once more, earlobes hurting.

“And something about pansies?” Jasleen raised an eyebrow.

“A flowerpot almost fell on my head last night!”

“And you saw the cat…right before?”

Hope bloomed inside Anna. She wasn’t crazy. Jasleen could see it, too.

“What if it’s—I mean, you stepped out of the way just in time, otherwise that girl on the scooter would have slammed straight into you…” Jasleen glanced back at the black cat. “What if it’s looking out for you?”

“Huh?”

“The cat. What if it’s trying to protect you? Think about it. You actually got lucky, not the other way around.”

Anna looked at the cat. It narrowed its eyes at her again. “Jasleen, it’s glaring at me!”

“No, girl, that’s how cats show love. They squint at you.”

“What?”

“Cats squint at people they love. That cat looks like it loves you.”

“But what about the colour of its eyes?! They’re practically glowing!”

“They’re so pretty.” Jasleen smiled sadly. “Used to have a cat that looked like that, but it was grey. Same eyes though. It would sleep with me when I was sick and snuggle me when I was sad. Got me through some rough times, you know, when my parents were getting divorced.”

Anna studied the cat over the chaos. An ambulance rolled up to the scene, along with a firetruck. The girl from the scooter was sobbing in agony, clutching her arm. An older woman was knelt beside her, trying to calm her down.

Through it all, the cat remained firmly rooted in place.

“Squint back.” Jasleen narrowed her eyes at the cat. “They love that shit.”

The injured girl let out another wail. What if Anna had collided with her? She’d be the one howling in pain.

Thinking back on the first accident—hadn’t Anna stepped towards the cat initially? When she’d first seen it? Yes, she had. And the car stopped inches from her. Moving towards the cat had saved her.

And the flowerpot? That time, Anna had been running towards the cat. If she’d remained stationary, those pansies would have landed on her head.

But what about the empty glass in her room? The cat had drawn her in, causing her to trip. But that had prompted Jasleen to help her clean. Now her room was hazard free.

“Come on.” Jasleen squeezed her hand. “Humour me.”

Anna met the cat’s neon eyes. It flicked its tail. Sighing, Anna squinted at it. The cat returned the gesture, then slowly sauntered off.

“There. Now you’re good,” Jasleen said. “Cops are coming. Let’s give our statements so we can go home.”

Shaken, Anna and Jasleen returned to their apartment, but after a couple hours Jasleen cracked a joke and Anna found herself laughing. The sun set, and the heat that had plagued them earlier died off. They cooked dinner together, and Anna cleaned up, thanking Jasleen again for helping with her room.

Anna thought about the cat. What if Jasleen was right, and it wasn’t out to get her, but rather was protecting her?

Jasleen laughed loudly in their living room while watching a stand-up comedy special. Anna bit her nails. She opened a kitchen cupboard and pulled out a can of tuna.

“Can I have this?” Anna asked. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Go for it,” Jasleen said without taking her eyes off the television.

Anna opened the can, sighed, and went into her bedroom. She flicked on the light, expecting to see the cat waiting for her on the windowsill, but it wasn’t there. She moved to the window and opened it. Sirens echoed somewhere far off, and a horn honked, reminding her of the unfortunate accidents that had almost taken her life.

Anna stuck her head outside, held out the opened cat of tuna, and tapped it with a fork. “Here, kitty, kitty,” she said weakly.

She placed the can of tuna on the windowsill. Whatever the cat’s motives, Anna could use the tuna to thank it, or try to make a peace offering if it was, indeed, nefarious.

“Kitty, kitty…” Anna said under her breath. She grimaced, feeling stupid, and shut the window.

Tired, Anna flopped on her bed and pulled out her laptop, opened the lid, and put her headphones in. She watched YouTube videos on black cats and learnt that some cultures viewed them as bringers of good luck. Interesting. She’d always been led to believe they were bad news.

After a long YouTube blackhole, she pulled out her headphones and heard a scraping noise outside. Anna sat up slowly and looked out the window to see the same big, black cat eating the tuna, the can sliding against the windowsill as it mowed down.

It froze, its bright teal eyes on Anna.

Nervous, Anna slid the window open. “You want in?” she asked meekly.

The cat jumped on her bed, purring loudly. It brushed against Anna, tail up in the air.

Anna smiled. “I suppose I owe you one. Well, more than one.” She scratched behind its big ears. It was actually really cute, and soft, and seemed like it had a sweet personality. How could she have thought it was evil?

Anna felt calm wash over her as she stroked its black fur. “You can stay if you want. Jasleen said she likes cats, so why not?”

It pushed the top of its head against Anna’s arm, purring loudly. Anna reached over and closed her window. Exhausted, she fell asleep shortly after, the black cat curled up against her legs.

Karma – Entry #1

October 24, 2022October 24, 2022 Ava.BlackLeave a comment

I recently discovered that Reedsy has a weekly writing contest and decided to enter. I’m aiming to write at least one prompt a week. My partner gave me the brilliant idea of also posting them to my blog, so I’m going to do that. Hurray.

The link to my first submission, which I titled Karma, is here. The prompt was “write about a character missing a train, for better or worse.” No idea if I’ll win or not, but that’s not really why I’m doing it. It’s nice to keep writing, and short stories aren’t something I have a lot of practise with.

I realized, after I wrote this submission, that the Canadian Criminal Code has been updated and I used an archived version of the law. Wooops. Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t pursue a law career, after all.

Jokes aside, I’m proud of this one. It’s a bit personal, if I’m honest. I went to university in Vancouver, Canada, and let me tell you, the wealth disparity on campus was blatant and depressing. I held a job where I worked with several dozen other students, and out of everyone, only two people didn’t live with their parents and had to pay their own tuition. I was one of them.

I learned what privilege was, and honestly, it stung. I know I’m privileged to have gotten to go, but I was so broke I went hungry at times. Meanwhile, other kids were driving Lamborghinis to campus. In order to survive, I had to hold down several jobs. I also wanted to be a lawyer, and that meant I had to maintain a high GPA, volunteer, and intern on top of everything. It sucked.

Needless to say, I ended up changing my mind and pursuing a different career path. Ironically, I work with a lot of former lawyers. From what they tell me, I made the right choice. No regrets.

Anyways, enough blabbing. Here’s my story:

Karma

Concealer under my eyes to cover the bags. Visine to clear the red lines. Mascara, even though it will inevitably smudge. The front-facing camera on my phone is broken. I’ll need a pocket mirror to touch up my make-up on the train. I’m tired of being a broke student.

But after years of schooling, I scored an interview for one of the best paid legal internships in Vancouver. I glance at the stained walls of my crumbling apartment. Paid. With Grace Wexley, no less. A criminal lawyer famous for defending addicts in the Downtown Eastside.

If I get this internship, I can help people and work with the community, all while not starving. Grace usually hires her interns back if they do well, and she pays a living wage. It’s my dream job.

Yesterday, I had a heavy day of volunteering at the women’s shelter, but afterwards I jogged to clear my mind, studied until I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and studied more as soon as I woke up. My medication kept the nightmares at bay, so my morning was productive. I’m groggy, but it’s nothing coffee can’t fix. I can do this.

Wool coat, or raincoat? It’s raining, but a wool coat looks more professional. Mine is black, like my pants and blouse. Why are all my clothes black? Right, because black goes with everything, meaning I don’t have to worry about matching colours.

Except now I look like I’m going to a funeral, not a job interview.

I need to change my outfit. It’s not just the drab colours—my tits are spilling out of this top.

I pick up my phone. Shit. I have five minutes to catch my train, or I’ll be late to the interview! How did I let this happen? I don’t have time to change. I just need to get going and pray my boobs stay in place.

I put on my heels and black wool jacket, then snatch my purse, full of study notes and other essentials. I bolt out of my apartment, locking the ancient door behind me, and dash down the cabbage-scented corridors.

I make it to the stairs. The building is so old it doesn’t have an elevator, but it’s only three stories. And the rent is cheap.

I bumble down, nearly tripping. I’m a track athlete, but like most people, I suck at running in heels. Why do women have to wear heels to look professional?

I trip on the last flight and slam into a wall. Pain shoots through my wrist and my head spins, thanks to my medication. Hopefully the sprint to the train gets it out of my system.

I stumble out of the entrance of my musty building, and I’m met with a lot of rain. Sheets of it. Way more than usual. I reach in my bag for my umbrella, but don’t find it. My mascara will run. I forgot my pocket mirror, too. I don’t have time to go back. Shit.

This internship means I can make real change and help people. It will lead to a rewarding career, and not just in a financial sense.

No more black clothes. No more noisy neighbours keeping me awake.

No more pills to numb the constant, overwhelming anxiety caused by living in poverty.

Show my parents that I’m better than them. Make them regret how they treated me—no, don’t think about it. Focus.

The interviewer’s going to test your knowledge of criminal law. Focus.

My parents aren’t going to fuck this up for me.

I race into the monsoon. It ruins my straightened hair and melts my make-up off my face. It soaks through my wool coat and drenches my titty-brandishing top. It floods my over-sized bag.

Shit, this is bad. Bad. Bad. I must look like a drenched harlot, not that I’m one to slut shame, but this is unreal. I can picture my mother sucking on a cigarette, smirking. She croaks through a cloud of smoke: “And here you were, thinking you’re better than us. It’s karma, sweetheart. Karma for being a rat.”

Karma my ass. That bitch can rot in her cigarette smoke-stained trailer. I’m going to be a lawyer. I’m going to be a good person and help people, unlike her. I’ll start by catching this damn train.

The station is a ten-minute walk from my house, or a five-minute heel-laden run. The train is close to arriving, but I can make it.

I grew up running. From escaping my violent parents, to running away from home, to running track to get a scholarship, to running all throughout university to pay for it, and now running towards my future.

No one is taking it from me. No one. Not my parents, and especially not karma.

I bolt, sweeping through the trees and onto the sidewalk, bee-lining for the tunnel that runs under the busy highway and leads directly to the station.

I make it to the tunnel. More stairs. I go down as quickly as I can, heels splashing in puddles filling the misshapen steps. I stagger and recover, dizzy. At least the downpour is cold. It’s keeping me awake.

I turn a sharp corner and speed through the concrete tunnel bathed in harsh yellow tones from flood lights. The clacking from my heels bounces off the walls and echoes. Several homeless people snigger, and one shouts where you going sweetheart? My mom’s voice echoes in my mind. Where are you going sweetheart? She’s standing in the porch, shouting at me as I flee, cigarette burn on my arm sizzling.

Don’t think about it. Criminal law. I sweep around another corner, racing up the stairs to make it back to the sidewalk, then to the station. Test yourself. When can one claim self-defence?

S.34 of the Canadian Criminal Code: every one who is unlawfully assaulted without having provoked the assault is justified in repelling force by force if the force he uses is not intended to cause death or grievous bodily harm and is no more than is necessary to enable him to defend himself.

I hear the train racing down the tracks, its loud breaks beginning to engage.

“Fuck!” I shout, driving my strength into my quads and tearing down the sidewalk, rain splashing into my eyes.

I’m almost there. I can make it. I reach the entrance to the polished station, equipped the freshly installed electronic gates. I shove my hand into my wool coat and reach for my electronic train pass, and—

I stop. It’s not there. Panic shoots through me. I shove my hand into my other pocket. Nothing. I gasp and look through my purse. The ink on my wet notes is smeared. I rip them out, but it’s not there.

My pass is at home. In my rain jacket.

The train screeches to a halt and I hear the cool, automated voice announcing its arrival.

I shove my soaked notes back into my purse and fumble for my wallet, shaking as I pull out my credit card. The new barriers allow you to tap a credit card as payment, like you would a debit machine. I rush up to the barrier and slap my card on the grey pad, waiting to see the green check mark pop up on the small screen.

Nothing. Nothing. Why?

“Seriously?!” I shout and slam my card back down on it. The screen gives me a friendly, green check mark and the barrier opens. I shout in frustration and soar through it, scrambling up the escalator, gasping for air.

A nearby man let out a phlegmy cackle. “You won’t make it, dear!”

You’ll never get into university, dear. You’re dumb as shit, just like that idiot father of yours.

I climb faster.

You’re going to live and die here, just like me.

My legs burn from the never-ending escalator, but I fight through.

You’re just like your father. Just. Like. Him. A deadbeat loser.

I got a 4.0 in undergrad. I got into law school. I have scars from beatings, but I’m still here, besting even my Louis Vuitton-clad classmates.

Doesn’t matter. He’s in jail and it’s your fault, you little rat. Karma will get you, just like you deserve.

Halfway there. The train waits for a solid minute or so. I can still do this. I shove past a woman in a violet jacket, who appears not at all concerned that the next train is a whole ten minutes away.

He could have claimed self-defence if you hadn’t called the police, like the little rat you are.

No, Mom, not accordingly to s.35 (c), because he did not decline further conflict. Dad’s victim begged him to stop, but he beat the man into a coma. Over a bag of heroin. In our living room. I did the right thing. I did the right thing—FOCUS!

Excessive use of force. They might ask me a question on that.

I gasp for air as I make it to the last step, fighting my way to the top, as I always have. The train doors are still open and only a mere twenty-five feet away. The cart is packed with individuals from all walks of life, almost of whom are sporting rain jackets and holding closed, dripping umbrellas at their sides.

A few spots me, eyes massive. I know that look. It’s reserved for those left behind, clinging to some futile hope that they’ll make it onto the train, even though everyone knows damn-well they’re screwed.

Not me. I fly, feet barely touching the ground as I cover those last twenty-five feet like they’re inches. I can see it in the passenger’s eyes. They’re amazed, and they should be. They’re witnessing a miracle, after all.

I could be a stunt woman if lawyering doesn’t work out. I should be. I’m a hero. A real-life hero. Wonder Woman. Fuck you, Mom and Dad. You won’t hold me back, not this time—

My right foot slips and my ankle twists. I can’t recover. My knee slams on the concrete platform and I bounce. I cover my head on instinct, grasping the back of my skull and shielding my temple with my forearm. My ribs collide next, and I hear a crack before I feel the agony shoot through me, starting in my chest and radiating to my spine. My forearm lands, shielding my head, but I bite my lip as I collapse, face inches from the train.

“Oh my god!” someone cries. “Are you alr— “

The doors slide shut before I hear the rest.

Pain. I let out a groan and more hurt shoots through my chest. I can’t breathe. I roll onto my back, grinding my teeth. I taste blood.

“Are you alright? Shit, that’s a stupid question. Of course you’re not,” someone says nearby. “I’m calling 911—”

A familiar image of a bloodied man in my living room materializes in my mind’s eyes. He’s begging my dad to stop hitting him.

“Don’t!” I shout, ignoring the agony in my ribs. I let out of roar as I push myself up. I don’t know if it’s in pain or anger.

“You’re bleeding—”

“I’m fine!” I shout, then crumble, holding my side. I clench my jaw. I’ve managed worse pain than this. I can still make it. I’ll be late, but maybe I can blame the train being delayed.

I open my eyes and look up at the digital board displaying the transit schedule. Nine minutes until the next train arrives.

As I look to the glistening tracks, I realize I’m surrounded by a gawking crowd. The closest person is a woman in her early fifties or late forties, I can’t tell. She’s well-dressed, but not soaked like me, wearing a violet jacket and emerald Fluevog boots.

It’s the same lady I pushed past earlier on the escalator. She picks up my scattered belongings, including my rain-soaked notes, and puts them into my bag.

“I need to catch the next train.” I wipe my mouth, blood smearing on my trembling hand. “I’m late—it’s,” pain radiates through me, “it’s important.”

“It’s not worth your health, whatever it is,” the woman says.

I bite back a sarcastic laugh. “Trust me, it is.”

“Unless it’s a doctor’s appointment, it can wait.”

“It’s a job interview,” I croak, raspy voice like my mother’s.

The woman frowns. “You’re hurt. Badly. If they don’t understand, you don’t want to work there, anyways.”

God, why now? Why does some privileged boomer need to sweep in now and give me out-of-touch advice?

“I appreciate,” I wince, “the concern, but I’m alright.”

“No offence, but if you go in there looking the way you do, you’re not going to get the job. You’re best off telling them you need to reschedule.”

She has a point. There’s blood on my face. My palm is cut. My pants are ripped, exposing a bloodied knee. My tits are probably out. I look like shit.

“You’re right,” I concede.

“Should I call 911?”

“I can’t afford the ambulance.”

“It’s eighty dollars…”

“I know. I’m poor, alright?” Fresh agony—talking hurts. “Eighty dollars is food for the week. I’ll get the next train. It stops at the hospital.”

She looks at me, long and hard. “I’ll drive you. Can you walk to the car?”

I nod. She helps me up. The pain is overbearing, not only in my ribs but in my knee and ankle. I ignore the onlookers on the platform, focusing on dragging my sorry ass to the elevator.

We cross the platform together, me limping like a lame mutt, and approach the steely elevator doors. The woman presses the down button.

Karma. As the doors open and reveal bottom floor of the station, I let silent tears run down my face.

My mom’s right. Trash. That’s all I’ll ever be. Bloodied and soaked like the drowned rat I am.

We slowly walk to the parking lot and the woman helps me walk to her brand-new Tesla. She must have driven in from the hills where all the rich people live. She opens the door for me, and I fight the urge to cry as I sit on the black leather seat, white-hot pain enveloping me.

She pulls up the car’s GPS and types in hospital, tapping the nearest one. The car starts with a humming noise. She pulls out of the parking lot and rain patters against the windshield, wiped away effortlessly. My seat is warmed. The car smells like it’s fresh off the lot.

I could have been this woman, but I messed it all up, just like Mom predicted. Why, why can’t I be functional, like my classmates? Why does everything have to be hard?

Karma, my mom’s hoarse voice echoes in my mind.

“How you holding up?” The woman asks, a worried look on her face.

“Fine,” I lie, my voice shaking. “T-thanks for driving me, and sorry if you’re late for work because of this.”

She shrugs. “You don’t need to apologize. I can reschedule my morning.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

I let out a pain-laced snort.

“I know,” she sighs. “But we’re not all bad.”

“No, it’s not that. I was on my way to an interview. For an internship.”

“At Wexley and Oakes?” she asks.

Fuck. “Um—yeah.”

She grins. “That’s a wild coincidence. I was supposed to interview interns today.”

You’ve got to be kidding me. “Are you Grace Wexley?”

“I am,” she says. “Judging from how you were running, you must be Mercedes Burnwell.”

Of course. I laugh, and I stop immediately, the pain too much. Then I start crying.

“Hey,” she puts a hand on mine and squeezes, not taking her eyes off the road, “don’t stress, alright? To be honest, I already made up my mind about you.”

“W-what,” I choke out. “That you won’t take me?”

“No!” She looks aghast. “You were the best candidate. You have the highest GPA and the most volunteer experience I’ve seen in a long time. In the Downtown Eastside, no less. From what I hear, you’re a big part of the community.

“And you held a part-time job throughout undergrad, all while running for the track team. Tell me, between working, studying, training, and volunteering, did you ever sleep?”

“Five hours a night,” I say. “Six if I was lucky.”

She nods, a sad smile on her face. “I was like you. I didn’t get help from my parents, and had to get through university on sports scholarships, too. But it gets easier. I promise.”

“Sometimes—” I wince, fresh pain searing in my ribs. “It seems like—like it never will.”

“It will,” she says, the confidence in her voice so inspiring that, for a brief second, I believe her. “Listen, don’t worry about the interview. I have space for two interns. The position doesn’t start for another seven weeks, which gives you time to recover. The job’s yours, Mercedes.”

“Don’t—don’t you need to test me?”

“I caught a glimpse of your notes. I’m confident you know the law well enough. Besides, it’s an internship. I don’t expect you to be perfect. You’re there to learn.”

I nod, tears running down my face. “As long as this isn’t out of pity.”

“Not at all,” Grace says, smiling. “Your grades, reputation, and experience speak volumes. I know you’ll work hard, and I can tell you’re passionate. No one volunteers like you have unless they genuinely care.”

I nod, silent tears staining my cheeks.

“Call it karma,” Grace says. “With all that you’ve done for the community, you deserve something good.”

I choke out a painful sob, moving a closed fist in front of my mouth. One thing my mom always failed to mention, and I failed to believe, was that karma works both ways.

“Thank you, Grace,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

Hiring Beta Readers

March 19, 2021November 8, 2021 Ava.BlackLeave a comment

A detailed account of my experience using Fiver to hire beta readers

I tried to make this post as informative and helpful as I could. Just be forewarned that it’s long. If you want the TL;DR, skip to the high-level lists. The rest is background that might be helpful if you’re like me – a relatively new (and perhaps anxious) author seeking outside feedback for the first time.

If anyone wants the names of the beta readers I hired, email me. I won’t write them in the post or in the comments. If you have any other questions, ask! I want to help others as much as I can. And if I got anything wrong, please point it out. I don’t want to accidentally mislead anyone.

*I should also note that I read that authors shouldn’t pay for beta readers, and that the service you’re getting on Fiver is actually classified as a “critique.” I’ve seen people call Fiver contractors “beta readers” despite this, and that’s how they marketed their services, so I’m going to refer to them as such throughout this write-up.

Why I Paid

My novel is … different. It’s a fantasy novel, but it’s a similar style to Kings of the Wyld (pointed out by one of my beta readers, best compliment I got, thank you!) in that there’s comedy, character development, and action/politics. I would classify it broadly as fantasy, but it doesn’t fit in with the classic genre novels, done so intentionally.

Suffice to say takes some risks, and yeah, I know I’m stepping into a genre that has readers with set expectations in mind when they pick up a fantasy novel. I also have no formal creative writing training. I’ve never participated in writing circles and this is the first I’ve shared anything outside my friends and family.

I saw Fiver as an opportunity to hire beta readers that were committed to the cause, had some expertise, and could give me constructive, critical, unbiased feedback. I did worry that the fear of getting a negative review could influence them. I wondered, “will they say nice things because they’re afraid to say otherwise, even if my novel sucks?” But I learned that a good beta reader won’t do this, they’ll tell you the truth, even if it stings, but they will do so constructively, and you will thank them for it.

Fiver: What I Wish I’d Known

Maybe this is common knowledge, and I will admit that I technology is not my forte, in addition to the app-based gig economy eluding me at times. Whatever you may think of it, here’s my list of lessons learned:

1. Sellers set the delivery deadline, but they can extend it as many times as they like.

You can choose to accept or deny an extension. Accepting gives the seller more time. Denying awards you a refund, except…

2. You don’t actually get a refund.

You get a Fiver credit. Wish I’d known this, you’ll find out why below. I didn’t try to argue this with Fiver but maybe I could have. If anyone has any advice on that, let me know.

3. You get asked if you want to tip.

Where I live, it is expected that you tip at restaurants, coffee shops, when you get your hair done, etc. I was a waitress for three years and let me tell you, the only thing that made that back-breaking job bearable was the tips.

So in no way am I resentful for tipping my beta readers. I would encourage you to include it in your budget, because really, they don’t charge that much for the work they do and I’m sure they appreciate it. I will acknowledge that I can afford to tip, and I know this isn’t the case for everyone. Just be aware of it when you’re calculating your costs.

4. If a seller offers you a refund/requests to cancel, and you accept it, you can’t publicly review their services.

If anyone knows a way around this, please tell me and I’ll update the post. I will also note I don’t know what happens if you don’t accept their offer to cancel. Maybe you can rip them a new one for all to see?

5. You have three days to accept the order when it’s finished, otherwise it will automatically be accepted. After you accept it, you’ll be asked to provide a review immediately.

I didn’t realize I’d be asked to immediately review the services. So when I saw the option to give them a review, I said, “I’ll do it later after I read what their report.” I didn’t get the chance to do it again. Maybe there’s a way around this (again, open to feedback here). I wanted to give the person 5 stars and feel bad that I didn’t get the chance.

Lessons Learned

I tried to pick people from varied backgrounds that I could picture reading (but not necessarily liking) my book. Of the four people I chose, three were superb. One was not. More on that throughout this section.

1. Follow-up questions should be welcomed and free.

You should be able to ask follow-up questions after you receive your report. All the decent beta readers I worked with were all open to these, and when I did ask questions, they went out of their way to give me extended advice. They also didn’t charge me for this.

One person had it set as an option when I ordered initially, charging extra for “follow up questions.” He ended up being the most problematic of the four. I don’t know enough to say whether this was a red flag, but maybe someone else can speak to that.

2. Expect live comments in your manuscript.

Again, maybe this isn’t normal and I just got super lucky with the three amazing beta readers I hired, but they all provided these as part of their service and I loved reading them.

3. Go for sellers who are established with lots of buyer reviews, especially if you’re on a budget.

Might be obvious, but I didn’t do this for one of my choices and suffered the consequences. Not only do a lot of positive buyer reviews mean sellers are good at what they do, it also means they finished their orders.

I took a risk and picked someone with only a few reviews, because a) I wanted some gender balance; b) he came across as a fantasy snob, the exact type of person I wanted to read my manuscript because I wanted to know what their reaction would be to it; and c) he was cheap. I came to regret this choice.

4. Yeah, you get what you pay for, but sometimes you get a little more.

I hired two expensive beta readers and two inexpensive ones. One lower-cost beta reader I hired turned out to be professional, quick, and super nice. But the cheapest option? He had very few reviews and he was less money on average than the established sellers.

5. It can take time, so plan ahead if you’re on a schedule.

The fastest timeline I got was two weeks. The longest was four, but she finished ahead of schedule. All in all, I waited close to a month to get everything back.

6. Prepare a list of areas you want them to focus on.

They should ask you what you want specific feedback on and provide it to you in the report. I asked for plot, characters, dialogue, etc. If you want a full list of what I asked, DM me.

Overall Thoughts

The Good

I loved reading the critiques and the live comments. Seeing people laugh at things I tried to make funny and talk about how shook they were by the ending was rewarding. Hearing things like “I want to read more,” and “I couldn’t stop thinking about it, even when I was doing other things,” or even “I was so angry at [insert character name] I slammed my laptop closed” was worth every agonizing moment I spent on this novel.

Reading their analysis of my characters, saying they love them and feel connected to them (or that they hated them for the reasons I wanted them to hate them), has probably been the best thing to happen to me in a long time. I don’t really have words to describe the feeling it gave me. But I would say that it felt exactly like I imagined it would, and then some.

I want to make it clear: there was constructive criticism, as there should be, because no novel is perfect and that’s the point of beta readers. One report went into an in-depth analysis of the problems. It was a bit overwhelming, but damn, it was helpful and well thought-out, and I appreciated it as much as I treasured the compliments. I think it will help me make my novel better, but also show me how to be a stronger writer overall.

The Bad

The cheapest reader I hired was the most unprofessional of the four. He sent a plethora of excuses (the details of which I won’t get into) and numerous requests to extend his deadline, only to cancel abruptly. This, coupled with the fact that I didn’t get a cash refund and couldn’t leave a review to warn others, was a bit frustrating. Oh well, the Fiver credit turned out to be a blessing in disguise, because I used it to tip the others.

Moving Forward

What now? I’m going to polish this sucker up and make it better, maybe do a rewrite. Keep working, that’s what I’ll do, because that’s what I do best.

For anyone else out there like me, anxious to share your work out of fear of an anticipated accosting, don’t let haters influence you! Do what you want and take risks. Seek feedback and learn from it, but don’t let the fear of shitheads stop you from putting your work out there. Like me, you’ll probably be pleasantly surprised by what people have to say.

Back in Action

August 10, 2020August 10, 2020 Ava.BlackLeave a comment

It's been 84 years | Its been 84 years, Memes, Laughing so hard

Jokes aside, it has been a time. Graduate school was two years of agony, burnout, as well as fun. Then COVID-19 was the crescendo of crap, my graduation literally occurring peak pandemic. This is a post about getting through the perfect shitstorm, so if you’re not into that kind of stuff, wait for my next post (I promise it won’t take 84 years).

The first year of graduate school was brutal. I worked 18 hours a day, 7 days a week, for 8 months straight. It was a rough transition, and a drag-your-heels-until-they-bleed finish.

I know there are a lot of people that don’t have a choice but live this lifestyle (if you can call it that). I want to acknowledge (before I continue to whine) that for me it was a choice. An incredibly privileged choice, I might add. Even though it was tough, I’m still grateful for it.

I spent the summer between first and second year working a paid internship. It was a brief reprieve from school, and it was fun! The thing is, I had many grandiose plans about getting my blog and social media going again. But the burnout was real, and my living situation was stressful. I spent most of my summer drinking.

Second year, I worked two jobs, attended classes and wrote a thesis. Writing a thesis was challenging, because it is a totally different style of writing from creative writing. But I learned a lot, and once more, I’m grateful I had the opportunity to do so.

Then bam, middle of March comes, and I’m in lockdown. My mental health took a nosedive. I was already in a state of burnout, running on fumes, coffee, liquor and aggressive sports to unleash pent-up stress. I barely slept, maybe 4-6 hours a night, and all the intense working out riddled with an unhealthy lifestyle caught up to me.

My foot went first. I couldn’t walk for two weeks with a sprained ankle. I didn’t even realize it happened until I tried to walk to work the next day. Then my back – one herniated disk, three dislocated ribs. All I did was stretch in the morning. It’s crazy what stress can do you to your body.

The good thing about lockdown was I didn’t have to walk anymore, so a buggered foot didn’t matter. The bad thing was I sat constantly, making my back worse. On top of everything, it felt like the world was ending, I was still on the hook for all my assignments and my thesis, and I had two jobs to wrap up. Worse yet, we had a death in the family. I’m not going to be pompous and try to be eloquent. It fucking sucked.

I would love to say “I don’t know how I survived, but I pulled through, wow, I did it.” *Cue dreamy smile shot behind an inspirational backdrop like a sunset or waterfall or some shit.* Haha. No.

I drank. I drank almost every single day without fail. I would not recommend this approach. It was expensive and in the long-run, more taxing on my mental health than the alternative.

I finished everything pertaining to grad school in May, and I begin my new job in September, which gave me four months to do whatever I wanted. I remember thinking I have four months to write a book, make it perfect, publish it, and get my social media going! Wow-ee! BUCKLE UP!

Low and behold, I spent all of May drunk. Yes, all of May. My back went out in June, so that kept me sober, so I did a lot of writing then, but lockdown was lifted and July was boozy once more.

Somewhere amidst all that insanity, I thought to myself: why am I doing this? I talked to an old friend recently about everything, and something clicked. It has to stop. Maybe I finally recovered from the burnout. At least, enough to start writing my blog again. Or maybe when one does nothing but party, they realize it gets old fast.

I don’t know. I’m not going to over-analyze it. I’m just going to write this blog post, edit it, post it, and do the same again soon. And I’m going to get my social media active again. And I’m going to keep writing, even if it’s a trash 100 words a day, even if they’re excruciating, even if it takes everything I have that day to do it, because writing is better than booze, it’s better than over-exercising, and it’s one of the few things that genuinely makes me happy.

Writing Podcasts: Mythcreants Podcast

August 5, 2018 Ava.BlackLeave a comment

I’m a Luddite at heart. While I enjoy technology, I despise social media and I’ve been resistant to the societal changes it’s brought about. I refused to get a new phone for five years, but recently I had no choice and succumbed. I’m basically an 83-year-old in a 27-year-old’s body.

Doubtless, it would be difficult to make my way as an Indie Author without social media. So I’ve decided to create some pages on Instagram and Twitter, and will be making a Facebook account soon enough. I also frequently post on Reddit, but I don’t really consider that social media. It might be the only platform besides WordPress I don’t use begrudgingly.

That all aside, another aspect of technology I’ve avoided has been Podcasts. Why, might you ask?

I didn’t understand what they were, and I didn’t care to find out;
I didn’t like the name “podcast” (yes, I’m ridiculous);
I thought you had to have an Iphone to get them (continuing on the ridiculous train);
I didn’t know any good ones, and I couldn’t be bothered to look into it (do I need to say it again?);
I hate Apple, and I associated Podcasts with this company for the longest time.

However, my thirst for knowledge overpowered my stubbornness, and I invested some time in researching good podcasts (is the word a proper noun?) for writing. One that came up was the Mythcreants Podcast.

I started listening to it while I was stuck in the filing room. It was a long, boring week at work, and I got relegated there to do someone a favour. During that time, I listened to at least 10 of their shows. The verdict? These guys are fantastic.

Oren and Chris really know their stuff. Both of them are intelligent and knowledgeable when it comes to writing and creating. The topics covered on their podcast include a wide range of subjects, such as “Describing the Environment;” “The Important of Character Likability;” and many other areas of writing I didn’t even think of.

Even if you aren’t writing SciFi or fantasy, check them out, they have a wealth of knowledge to share: https://mythcreants.com/ Seriously, check it out!

I’ll just leave this here…

August 5, 2018August 5, 2018 Ava.Black3 Comments

Happy Saturday night. If you’re like me, inside the house and browsing r/writing, you may have stumbled across the below image. It’s a compilation of advice from Stephen King’s On Writing. Enjoy!