Lysia Smandych
Bio
I am a mother of 2. I cherish family, art & people. I live for going deep and believe life is too short not to laugh. I am so grateful for readers and I hope you enjoy my writing. Dive in and find an escape to somewhere new or familiar.
Stories (4/0)
Four Walls
She knew it was time; that official crossover between child and adult. It wasn’t about age, it was about circumstance. That conjuncture in your life when you formally step up. No one asks you to. You just know you’re the only one who is going to handle it. It is usually when someone in the family dies, or gets sick, or both. You’ll know if it is ever your time. She had been an adult for longer than had been acknowledged. She just lived her adult life outside of their four walls. This wasn't about them. It was about him. He had always seen her. He recognized her playful side without making her feel that at a certain age it was no longer appropriate. He never lectured her on who or how she should be, the exact opposite of the men she opened her heart to. Her Grandfather was intelligent. And kind. She was, too, but somehow these suitors would reel her in, make her feel like she needed them, and then she would never be good enough. They didn't want to let her go, but they never picked her first. And you know what? It hurt. Every. Single. Time. That sharp pang of rejection and... *sigh*. She was doing it again, pandering to an agony that was in the past. Avoiding the present. Sorry, Grandpa. She sat on the edge of her bed and hung her head. This tenderness was a dull ache. And new. It felt like there was this wall of separation from feeling his presence, vividly, and the reality that he was gone. She always knew she would be the one. The individual who could clean it all up. Nobody else even offered.
By Lysia Smandych3 years ago in Fiction
Night Shift
Another night shift. Why did he agree to take it? He steadied his mind and closed his eyes. Commence pros and cons, his inner voice cued. Ritualistically, he tapped his thumb to his pointer finger as he reminded himself of the list. Pro, no one else around. It was quiet. Con, no one else around. He opened his eyes; fingers static. The factory always had that eerie feeling. He knew he would be the onlyone there, but he never felt alone. Sometimes, the mental preparation to psych himself into it wasn't worth the overtime pay. Tonight he was okay. He was having breakfast with Marg after his shift. He sighed cheerfully and then realized he hadn't added her to the pro list. He steadied his mind and closed his eyes. Commence pros and cons, his inner voice cued. Ritualistically, he tapped his thumb to his pointer finger as he reminded himself of the list. Pro, no one else around. It was quiet. He would have breakfast with Marg after his shift. Con, no one else around. He opened his eyes; fingers static. Much better! He felt oddly calm. He packed his uniform in the grey company duffle bag. He didn't like wearing his issued attire in or out of the house. He would change at the factory, twice. Using his mental checklist, he grabbed his lunch from the fridge. He turned on the stove light and turned all the other lights off. Did burgulars really fall for the illuminated stove light trick? It seemed like a moot gesture, but it was part of his 'leaving his house for a night shift routine.' There was no changing it, or he would have to start all over again from the beginning. Sometimes, he was late.
By Lysia Smandych3 years ago in Fiction
Feeling Quixotic
She was late. Again. Shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot. She pulled into the parking lot on two wheels. She put the car in park and opened the door as she turned the car off. It was Wednesday, sometimes he was in a good mood on Wednesdays. Dance bag, water bottle, lock the door. Beep, beep. Run!
By Lysia Smandych3 years ago in Fiction
Seeds
He heard her voice on repeat; "When the flowers die, the seeds come alive. When the flowers die, the seeds come alive. When the flowers die..." He hated dead heading the marigolds. His mother had taught him well, repeatedly. It would be five years that winter since she had passed. He could still feel her words. Delicately, he separated the dead flowers from the now useless stems. If he had wanted a smidge of affection from her, he had to be in the garden with her. She never recovered from losing Maple. None of them had. That loss confirmed for him how genuine connections needed to be. For a few months, the blossomed marigolds would hide the pain. His Mom would retreat to the one place her lack of human connection did not affect. Her garden. He bent over to pluck another dead flower. 'When the flowers die, the seeds come alive.'
By Lysia Smandych3 years ago in Fiction