My NYC Midnight Submission, 2nd Round (Flash Fiction)

Well, a whirlwind weekend with lots of outings and freelance work resulted in me drafting a quick story and editing said story and not liking the story but submitting it anyways. My luck is usually when I feel good about a piece the judges don't give it a good score, but when I dislike it I get a decent score. So we'll see if that trend continues on with this round. Didn't score great on my first round action/adventure entry. So we'll see how the genre of horror fares for me. Genre: Horror. Location: Outdoor music concert. Object: Animal crackers.

I let the animal crackers guide me on this one. I present...

"Jibber Jabbers Live!"

I check my buds to make sure they are stuffed well inside my ears putting as much of a barrier between me and the overly excited mass of kids surrounding me. The toddlers cover up almost every inch of green in this park. Several feet away my parents lift my little sister high in the air as a flag for me to wave at. They’re excited to see me work my first job. But more so they’re excited to see the Jibber Jabbers live.

Kids love the damn Jibber Jabbers. They seem to be the only thing to settle them down. The Jibber Jabbers appeared on TV two years ago and parents couldn’t live without them. I tried watching with my sister once but after a few minutes the noise, well music, made me twitch. Had me rubbing my ear against my shoulder to get rid of a scratch. But my four-year-old sister was stone with a smile on her face. She clapped to the auto tunes and the fuzzy red, yellow, blue and white creatures that looked like a bear with a giraffe’s neck and a cat’s face. It was all pretty disturbing to me but my parents, all parents appreciated the Jibber Jabbers because they provided sixty minutes, without commercials, of child-free time.

I give a limp wave to my parents and sister before adjusting my Jibber Jabbers cap. The wind is non-existent thankfully so the tri-colored tassles don’t fling in my face—hitting me in the eye, nose, making it to my mouth—unless I move my head too fast. I’m wearing a yellow shirt for the Jibber Yowza.

I’m on the outskirts of the crowd surveying to see if there are any spots on the lawn. I’m surrounded by cackling, sniffling, burping, crunching on animal crackers while trying to talk spit and crust flying into the air, hyped up kids ages four and up.

I turn back to my family and see my mom motioning for me to take out my buds. I shake my head. No way I want to hear these kids in stereo. No. Freaking. Way. They encouraged me to take this job. It got them discounted tickets and am also learning responsibility. Yeah great, I say seeing a woman on a blanket near the stage change her child’s diaper…in public.

I inhale big regretting taking this job. Management wanted teens mainly because we have the energy to deal with the kids. That anyone between the ages of fourteen and eighteen (with working papers) can deal with loud noises and children who pee anywhere and everywhere. Hey, we’re young only way to go is up!

A couple of burly, thick guys in black that remind me of secret service on TV are a barrier between the people and the stage. These guys are the only dark spot. Like any kid is getting beyond that wall of black.

The static hum increases. It buzzes in my ear and seems to be sneaking inside, coiling itself past my ear drum into my brain. I stick my finger in my ear like I want to shake it out.

I hear a bleep and the stage lights up even with the sun. I blink rapidly but look away unable to take the sun and the ultraviolet green from the arena. I stare into the audience. My sister’s face is super round and glistening in excitement with mom and dad on either side of her.

Once the announcement starts up the crowd goes crazy. Screams and screeches abound with wild clapping. I stuff my earbuds in more, while the sound isn’t completely cancelled out it is dulled a good amount.

I keep my back to the Jibber Jabbers. There’s another usher near me, Robert, who’s staring at them. He sticks his tongue out while mimicking hanging himself and I laugh. The kids that can walk get to their feet and gyrate to the beat pulsing around me.

Robert bobs his own head and then, suddenly, he’s frozen. I’m about to ask if he’s okay when my eyes dart sideways and notice I’m looking at a sea of little mannequins. The kids are statues. The adults are moving, freaking the hell out in fact. I face the guards to yell at them about the kids, but the men aren’t solid like before. They’re jittery masses with their arms twitching along with their mouths, blood seeps from their noses and veins pulse in their necks like snakes with a big old heartbeat.

My heart pumps hard and fast as I take it all in and see a mother’s eyes bleed, her pupils going black. The child in her lap is motionless and staring ahead at the Jibber Jabbers.

I dart into the audience heading straight for my sister and parents when my dad clutches his neck. I’m too far away, other people shivering and falling around me as I watch my father ooze blood from not just his eyes and mouth but from his skin like he’s sweating the stuff. I fall beside him and mom in her fold out chair. Mom slides off her body limp with my sister in her lap dazed. I look at the stage for the first time not wanting to take in anymore of the bleeding parents young and old. When I see the Jibber Jabbers they’re in a row, fuzzy beings of red, yellow, blue and white. I always thought they were just people in a suit. A hot, big suit but one of them, Jibber Yowza, smiles exposing jaw upon jaw like a shark. Wet, scaly lips close over the teeth. I can’t hear what is said nor do I want to when its large orbs lock on me noticing I’m one of the young people not comatose and not bleeding like the adults. I don’t take out my earbuds. I grab my sister and run like hell, making animal crackers dust under my feet.

My NYC Midnight Submission, 1st Round (Flash Fiction)

As mentioned in my previous post this past weekend the first round of the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Competition commenced. And it was 48-hours of craziness. Though the Twitter-verse wasn't as rowdy as usual. Perhaps because of the condensed time and the fact that there are only two more episodes of Breaking Bad left! Priorities. Anywho, for the first round my genre was Action/Adventure, my location was a Castle (which completely threw me as I never write about castles--you can thank Disney for that), and my object was a Bucket.

This was my first idea and it stuck. Don't love it but I think I hit all my bases. And of course it's after you hit the send/post button that you start seeing holes. Augh. Ah well. Thoughts/comments welcome.

I present Ascent:

You were always the favorite.

“That’s not true, Jeremy” Mia mumbles to herself, gulping air as she runs up the stairs. Her lungs feel like they’ll burst. Both her legs start to get that jelly feel as she ascends. In the darkness, each heel on a cobblestone step feels like a badge of honor.

Mia’s side brushes against the railing sending a flame from her right. The burn and stink of torched skin and hair are abundant. Jumping up another step she sucks in a scream, not wanting to hear her pain echo. On the upside, the fire provides the only light she’s seen since she initiated her climb.

The temptation to dose her leg with water from the bucket she carries is thwarted by the knowledge of how important it will become. She tries not to have too much water slosh out.

Mia stumbles, a stone gives way. “Pay attention!” she yells at herself. Her hair sticks to her neck and her bare shoulders; her tank top adheres to her skin. The whole castle, well the ruin it’s become, is a puzzle. A puzzle designed to screw her royal. Her father said it was an artifact remade to push present-day soldiers to the brink, to build the best of the best in lieu of older methods. Another stone crumbles and falls screeching before it hits the ground reminding Mia of how far she doesn’t want to fall.

Don’t die.

“Yeah, Jeremy, I’m trying.”

When she said this to him Jeremy didn’t look so sure from his wheelchair. He was her older brother, tall, but no one could tell anymore since he was always seated. He’d made it so far too. Their father was highly opposed to the new methods of testing. But was confident his children would make it out, with a little wear & tear. Then Jeremy returned with broken limbs beyond repair, practically a pretzel. Others came back broken or not at all. The announcement that Mia would be next in line was when her father was found in his office. No note. No reasoning. Just legs dangling, his neck twisted by the cloth tied to a ceiling fan. Mia was glad she hadn’t seen him like that. It wasn’t the Miller way.

Her right leg tucks under her, another cobblestone loosens. Regaining her momentum Mia jerks to the side touching the brick railing, and that’s when something shiny enters her periphery.

Her mind is on Jeremy’s words when she hits the floor. Her chest jams against the stairs inciting a strangled cough. There’s wind against her back and the sound of clothing tearing. A chill hits her skin. Another sting turns into a burn. Craning her neck the pendulum swings back where it came from.

Her attention snaps to the bucket on the step below her, tilted and losing water every second she stares at it. She pushes herself forward avoiding gaps where she senses them.

The castle looked huge when she approached it. A crumbling structure decimated at the top by bombs with pillars and columns’ jagged edges shooting into the sky. She headed inside with no supplies. “You come into this world alone, you leave it alone,” was all she was told.

She wobbles. “Don’t touch anything but the bucket.”

Air gets harder to take in. Her body is an unwanted weight. And that damn bucket. Its rope handles dig into her palm.  Water swishes around. She wants to take a drink, bathe in it, dab her wounds. But she can’t, she needs every bit she has.

Mia gulps tapping down the excitement when she feels the last step, the ground above it flattening under her. Her eyes have settled on the darkness. Her hearing and the cool air on her skin are so much more pervasive now.

They wanted me to fail. They’ll try the same for you.

“There’s always a way. I’ll make it. The Millers will be back on top.”

You’re way too hopeful. Just like Dad was.

“That’s a bad thing. Hope?”

Look where it got him.

The thinning of the air this high up. The sting on her back. The scorching throb on her calf. The overall ache of her legs causing her to tilt backwards almost losing her balance. The parch of her throat. All of it is designed for her to fail, like Jeremy said.

Even lifting the bucket makes her heave, like she’s been carrying a boulder instead of water. She readies it, slowly pouring with each step she takes. Each splash confirms there’s ground for her to continue going forward.

And then the splash stops. The droplets descend lower, revealing just what she thought: a gap in the path.

Her boots slip slightly from the wetness on the stones and she finds the edge.

Her legs are unreliable even bending she feels the tremble shake up through her spine.

A curse filters up through her throat along with a gurgle. She sucks back her fear, her anger, the mucus accumulating and spits. At first she hears nothing but the whistle of the wind up this high. And then there it is. Splat. Her saliva hitting the other end of the path.

She doesn’t know how many feet but if she could spit that far, she could jump it. She throws the bucket, hears it soar and bust on the other side.

Mia steps back, readies herself. Another breath, more burning. Running start and up she forces herself to think, to do. When she lands her knees crack against stone. Her face smacks a sharp edge and wetness lines her cheek.

Her arms automatically reach up to touch the barrier. The sear through the air alerts her too late. “Don’t touch the railing,” she reminds herself and in that same moment she’s met with ultimate darkness. The sharpness imbedding itself and the pain searing through her head is immediate.

Mia touches her eyes but is met with the feathery tip of darts. Once again, someone’s failed.

#NYCMidnight Flash Fiction Competition: Yup, I'm Back In It

After a year long hiatus in which I did not do as much writing as I liked and freelance consumed my life (kinda still does in a way with other things) I took a break from the NYCMidnight competitions to save some pennies and copyedit psychology supplements. Fun? Sure, why not. But, seeing as how the flash fiction challenge was coming in I decided to enter for the early deadline and will again be in it for at least two rounds in the flash fiction competition which commences tonight at exactly midnight.

So, my next post will be my entry in the first round and we'll see what I get in terms of genre, location, and object prompts. The last time I entered the flash fiction competition I got science fiction and horror along with some random a** objects (for the horror it was mouthwash). I got a higher rating on the horror, which I was not a fan of, than the science fiction one which I thought was amazing. Just goes to show you never know what the judges will like.

From the time I get my prompts I will have two days to complete the story and must submit by the end of the weekend (before midnight, specifically 11:59pm). After the first two rounds highest scores will advance to the third round and so on to the fourth.

Wish me luck! I always enjoy the NYCMidnight competitions for the camaraderie on Twitter (hair pulling, b****ing about genres, panicking galore) and have met some really cool people through the competition and read some amazing work. It's a fun twist at writing something outside your comfort zone and seeing what you're capable of. Having done the short story and flash fiction competitions before I've learned I can do romantic comedy and horror as well as other genres. Just because you write in one doesn't mean you have to be relegated to it. If your aim is to write a good story that'll come through.

Good luck to all who do the competition and I look forward to reading your pieces and complaining about mine on Twitter right along with you.

Fourth Writers' Platform Builder's Campaign!

It's 2012 and I am so psyched to be able to participate in Rachel Harrie's Write Campaign. Rachel started this to get writers together from various locales and we connect by visiting each other's blogs, networking with each other online, and providing support you may or may not already have over the course of several weeks.

I first heard about the Write Campaign via one of the writers I participated in the NYCMidnight challenge with. She had done it and I had unfortunately missed the deadline. But I kept vigil and am glad to say that I made it in time to register for this years' campaign.

I strongly suggest any emerging writers join as you can make great connections, get in some good prompts to create in case you may be stuck, and it's always good to provide and gather good vibes from other writers going through the same things you are.

Last day to register is February 15th. So make sure to visit Rachel's blog and fill in the entry form and follow the necessary steps. And don't forget to spread the word and note the hashtag #writecampaign on Twitter to connect with other entrants once it commences.

Hope to see you there!

My NYCMidnight Submission 2012 (Short Story)

Either I'm a glutton for punishment or I love me a challenge! Let's go with the latter shall we? I entered the NYCMidnight Short Story Competition again which took place over the course of eight days from 11:59pm on January 20th to 11:59 pm on January 28th. I stayed up that Friday awaiting my challenge and found that the genre I received, again, was romantic comedy. This time there was a character as well as a subject to work into your story. My character was a 'daredevil' and my subject was 'a rise to the top.'

[Oh, I should also note an update to my previous NYCMidnight post. I didn't make it to the next round of the Flash Fiction contest. But the horror story I wrote, "First Date," for the second challenge ranked very high, within the top three for that portion. However, the high ranking for the second challenge didn't help since I ranked so low in the first. Ah well.]

The short story first round took place over my birthday week and since I had festivities galore that planned (one word: pies!) I was hoping to be able to draft and write a story I could at least tolerate before the work week began. Luckily after receiving my assignment I thought up a premise I liked and scribed over 3000 words that first weekend. Over the course of the week I edited it down to slightly under the maximum word count of 2500 words. I can only hope that there's enough romance and comedy to earn it being categorized as rom-com. Last year I didn't like my piece but placed in the top 5 and after re-reading it a few times grew to enjoy what I created. This piece is 'meh.' But who knows. I'd like to make it to round two for once after being in the short story, flash fiction, and microfiction competitions last year, however if I placed well again I'd be happy. All-in-all I do enjoy the contests and will not rest until I have succeeded! <Insert maniacal laughter here.>

So, without further ado. I present my latest romantic comedy Walk of Shame:

“Are you out of your freaking mind?” Ricki says. She’s leaning against the door frame of my office, arms crossed in her blasé stance. But she’s giving me the Eyebrow. Raising it just enough that the person on the receiving end questions their motives. She used it often when we dated.

“It does sound…unwise,” Layla agrees. Her trademark scent of jasmine is pungent. She sits across from me while I remain behind my desk eyeing the latest sales figures for Sam & Sons Sports Equipment. We’re not in the red, but we’re getting there.

“I know it sounds extreme, but we’re a national sporting goods company. If we don’t believe in our product, who will?” I’m in charge since Dad decided to be a silent partner after the accident. I’m the one who has to think of the best ways for us to get back on top in a bad economy. So I should be the scapegoat for my idea.

Ricki sputters but doesn’t say anything else. She looks beyond me to the view of the city.

Layla rises from her chair. Her red suit hugs her body. Her skirt is short but it’s within regulation. She sits on my desk, crosses her legs giving me a peak of what she has on underneath, not much I can tell you.

“Nate,” she coos. “I know this seems like a good business plan but…”

I insist I’ll be fine. “I’ve climbed Mt. Everest, jumped from the Grand Canyon, skydived in Nepal.” I begin. Gaining momentum I push my chair back and point at the scene outside my window, at the adjoining sister building made of glass, steel, and plaster standing sixty feet from us and declare, “Eighty stories and sixty feet is a cake walk compared to what I’ve seen. I believe in our product and I need to do this.”

Layla gives me short applause while I mentally high-five myself for being a damn good salesman.

“Alright then. But this is it, okay? No more stunts.” Sneaking a peak at Ricki Layla makes a show of kissing me on the lips, pressing her whole body against me. I pull away quickly avoiding Ricki’s eyes.

Layla brushes past Ricki with a smirk on her face. Ricki stays back. She’s in one of many plaid skirts she owns. She wears her favorite pair of Converse sneakers. And her hair is sexy as hell in a messy bun, a pencil keeping it in place.

“You realize you’re not a Frenchman and this isn’t the seventies?” she asks.

“Of course.”

“Good, just wanted to make sure,” she says before leaving.

#          #          #

An hour earlier my assistant Javon played with the projector and my laptop trying to get my presentation up.

I was pumped, everyone else looked bored. Layla and her publicity team sat on one side of the oval meeting table. Sales and distribution were on the other.

Ricki was in back as the HR representative. Before going mute Dad said it was mandatory to have HR at sales meetings since one of the directors had tried to off himself. It was cited that this may have been prevented had we listened to what he was saying via a PowerPoint he made entitled ‘Life is Bullshit.’ In our defense most of us thought he was bitter because his nubile wife had just left him for someone her own age, and that perhaps he’d have learned his lesson after his sixth marriage.

I asked Javon if he was almost ready. He had a crease in his brow signaling he was either going to throw a tantrum or an object.

“Not working, Nathan,” he grumbled.

“Call, IT,” I said.

He glared at me but acquiesced. Employees would rather Google the hell out of something to figure out how to fix it themselves before going to IT. Holed up in a dank area of the office on a floor no one goes to except for supplies everyone considers IT hidden dwarfs, something out of Lord of the Rings. Whenever we call we suspect that they have a set recording and no one is actually there.

“Hello?” Javon said into the intercom.

“What’s the problem?” a voice crackled on the other end.

“Projector isn’t working with the laptop.”

“Is the device plugged in?”

“Yes.”

“Is it on?”

“Of course it’s on.”

“Did you jiggle the handle?”

Javon slammed his hand on the table. “Sonuvabitch!”

Ricki cracked a smile. She asked if Trevor could come by and help. At that the line went dead. Within two minutes he appeared.

I shouldn’t notice another guy but Trevor’s nothing like we thought of IT. The guy was broad shouldered and all-around chiseled. I thought I was good looking but for fuck-sake this guy was a Calvin Klein model. All the women and Javon drooled over him, even Layla gawked. But Ricki, his actual girlfriend, barely acknowledged his presence or good looks even after he winked at her.

Ricki and I locked eyes. I cocked my head to the side in a way that said “Really? That guy?” She in turn gave me the Eyebrow, which said “You dumped me, remember?” I didn’t have a facial gesture for that.

Once everything was set up I stood up. I looked at no one in particular, but found my focus kept sliding to Ricki. She didn’t look up from sketching, something I knew she did in her spare time since she studied art and not human resources in college.

I announced my idea while the video that inspired me played. The film was from the seventies, black and white and wobbly. A video of a Frenchman with balls of steel doing a tightrope walk between the Twin Towers rolled. This man held a beam in heavy winds taking his sweet ass time walking between two buildings that used to be the largest in the nation. This guy was lithe and agile and everything I remembered myself being before I hunkered down to run the company. Before my mother died in a freak accident. Before the Towers were no more and people were too afraid to ride in airplanes let alone be daredevils in their everyday life.

In the film the man was a speck against the Manhattan skyline. But in reality he was a trendsetter. A guy who wanted to do it because he could. I missed that feeling of just doing it. The rush of succeeding and feeling dizzy and hard all over. I felt myself getting erect right then and had to reel it back.

By the time I finished faces stared at me with mouths agape and eyes wide. One of the distributors slowly raised his hand.

“You’re saying you want to use our latest rock climbing rope to scale between two high rises?”

“Exactly.”

“As a publicity tool?”

I pointed at him. “Exactly!”

At my declaration Ricki squinted at me as though she didn’t recognize me.

Javon ran out of the room screeching. But no one else spoke. Silence turned into murmurs turned into intrigue weaving throughout the room. People said it sounded terrifying but glad it wasn’t them putting their ass on the line. They were excited, more than I’d seen them in months and I’d done that, as their boss. As a man with all the balls in the world.

#          #          #

On my desk is a picture of my parents smiling in neon skydiving suits. They had a priest come up several thousand feet in the air with them as they renewed their vows. I could barely hear them pledge their love to each other as the pilot signaled it was time for them to make their exit.

A month later, Mom died. Hangliding accident.

A tap at the door disrupts my thoughts. Dad’s in the doorway. He grins but I can tell by the lines etching around his mouth it’s forced.

“Nate.”

“Dad,” I reply.

“So…” he drags it out so that I fill in the gaps.

“You heard about what I’m doing next month?”

“I did.”

I lean back in my chair. “You don’t approve?”

“Didn’t say that.”

“Then…” it’s my turn to force his hand.

“I want to know why you think you need to do this.”

“Sales are down.”

“And?”

“We need to put our face out there again. Well, my face as the new head.”

“Anything else?”

“Sales are down.”

“You said that.”

“It’s worth repeating.”

Dad clears his throat. “I miss the thrill of it all too, Nate. I do. But some things lose their luster.”

“I know.”

“And you shouldn’t do this because you feel you have to.”

I lean on my desk. Folding my fingers together into a steeple I assure my father that I want to do this.

“If that’s the case then fine. But be careful. I can’t…” he chokes up. He covers his mouth as if to sneeze but I know he’s sucking back a sob. As his son I ignore it, allow him to have this moment of weakness.

He knocks on my desk three times. His way of exiting a room.

That night Layla comes over dressed in nothing but an overcoat and heels. She parades around and tells me to tell her how sexy she looks. It’s odd being directed to do so but I say it.

She snarls at me as she undresses, gets on all fours climbing on my bed and smacks me in the face.

“Ow!”

She looks stricken for a second but stiffens up. “You want excitement? I’ll give you excitement!” she yells. We tussle around, moan each other’s names. In reality her name isn’t the one on the tip of my tongue.

#          #          #

Time moved faster than I would have liked. I sit at my desk dressed in a goddamn leotard. What I won’t do for this company.

All day people have been coming in, rapping on my door already halfway in the office asking if I’m ready, mentally stable. Noting that the press is here. That there are orders up the wazoo. That people are going to post videos on the Internet and if all goes as planned the company will be a success again.

Thirty minutes before I’m to go to the roof someone knocks. Ricki appears behind the door and slowly shuts it behind her. She’s in her usual garb, same sneakers on. Never heels.

“Hey Frenchie.”

“Ricki,” I say admiring her from afar.

“Nice outfit. Do they have it in your size?”

For the first time in awhile I smile because I want to and not because it’s called for.

“The fact that I got into it at all is a feat in itself.”

“I believe you.”

“Are you here to try and talk me out of it?”

“At this stage of the game? Nah,” she waves the idea away. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing. Really doing.”

“A little nervous.”

She nods. “Sounds normal.”

I miss how relaxed things were with Ricki. Not getting beaten up as foreplay was a plus. I could be with Ricki then head off to bungee jump or for a business meeting and return to see her with a new item occupying her time.

“Hey! Bought a banjo!” she’d say holding her prize up.

Ricki embraced my wild side. Sometimes she’d join me, sometimes she wouldn’t. She’d put her head on my shoulder and inquire about events making me relive the whole experience right down to sweaty palms and fuzzy headaches from the intensity of it. But after awhile the jumps and the feeling of my heart in my chest didn’t matter as much as being with her. When I found myself snuggling with her instead of going out jet skiing with friends one Sunday morning, I knew I had settled down and it scared me.

On top of that I overheard her tell someone she was falling in love with me.

“I dunno how he feels about me though,” she added.

Of all the things I’d done, from convincing zookeepers to let me climb into tiger cages or jumping from a moving helicopter into the Baltic Sea hearing her say she loved me took my ability to breathe. My knees wobbled so hard I had to lean against the wall as I slid away.

That night I ordered in and broke up with Ricki. I told her we were too close, more friends than lovers. It almost felt true.

I was amazed she wanted to stay friends let alone be cordial. Especially once I started dating Layla and she paraded it around the office.

Speaking of, another knock reveals Layla. She gapes at Ricki before letting me know we have to go.

“Times up,” she says with some finality.

“Be right there. I need a minute.”

“Alright. Ricki…” she begins but I stop her.

“Ricki and I have something to discuss.”

Layla’s manicured nails scratch at the enamel but she grins and closes the door.

I get up from my seat and take a deep breath as I move towards Rickie. She smells faintly of roses.

Squeezing my hand she says, “Do this for you, Nate. Okay? Not for the business, or your mom God rest her soul.”

I nod. Lowering my head to hers our foreheads meet.

“I’m sorry,” I say because I am.

“For what?”

“You know what.”

“I’d rather have you as a friend than not have you at all. You know that.”

I open my mouth to speak but Layla barges in. Ricki and I are still close when Layla wedges herself between us telling me its time.

Every step is longer than the next until we finally get to the roof. It’s windy as hell up here.

From across the way I see cameras on the adjoining building. Media swarms our highrise as well. My dad is huddled among the mass as are Javon, other executives, even Trevor. I chuck a chin at Trevor and gesture towards my genitals, noting he may be good looking but I have the balls.

Ricki trails behind as Layla leads the way through the crowd. I feel exposed in this skintight outfit like I should be in Cirque du Soleil.

The questions are generic and so I have generic answers. “Feeling good! Can’t wait to get to the other side and prove how great our products are!” I say as jubilantly as I can.

I’m shoved to the edge. I’m given a beam. I’m asked how confident I feel and if I want to turn back. I shake my head at everything not wanting to give specific answers as bile hits the back of my tongue.

I take another deep breath. Once I’m on the ledge the wind knocks me back a few inches encouraging gasps from the crowd.

I turn and lock eyes with Ricki. No Eyebrow, instead she offers a smile.

“I love you,” she mouths.

Of all the things that frighten me in this moment it’s the fact that I love her too.

 [© copyright 2012 Jennifer Baker-Henry]