Stephen King fan (but not like Annie "I'm your #1 fan" Wilkes cuz, well, I'm sane and she's not)
Horror/supernatural are my favorite writing genres
Wife to 1 and mom to 4 humans, 4 dogs, 7 cats, and a dragon
"Jaws" is the greatest movie ever
My Dad the Bear
The call came at 2:30am on June 30th, 2010. A call that jolts you from your sleep in the middle of the night is never a good call. I don’t remember the exact conversation, only phrases like "sepsis" and “massive heart attack” and “we did everything possible” and “we’re very sorry.”
I woke with a start, heart hammering in my chest. Flat on my back, skin prickled with goose bumps, I shivered in my thin gown. At some point during the night I’d kicked off the blankets and lost my second pillow. Sighing, I stared at the ceiling, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The bedroom was quiet, save for the soft hum of the ever-running ceiling fan. I could just make out the whirling blades.
Rickie Lynn Smalls sat cross-legged on the floor of the hospital lobby, drawing a heart on her arm cast. She drew slowly, purposefully, ignoring the social worker perched on the chair behind her. Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way” played over the speaker. Rickie hummed along and kept drawing, proud of her steady hand. Good thing Carl broke my left arm and not my right or I’d be screwed, she thought.
We huddled in the remains of Ping’s Noodle House, sitting in the manager’s office on a makeshift couch of cinder blocks and torn cushions. We stared at the portable tv perched on the edge of the manager’s desk like a broken bird, its wings bent antennas. The shell of the tv was battered. Splinters ran across the dark screen.