brittanithewriter

[brittanithewriter]

Excerpt from the short film, "WRITER"

[brittanithewriter]

Trailer for "TROLL", a short film.

An internet troll's life is turned upside down when someone finds out her real identity. Will she be exposed?

[brittanithewriter]

Play Dirty; Love Fierce

The fashion industry is a $1.5 billion industry and growing. Not many people know firsthand what it takes to start and build their own clothing brand. There are the challenges of severing snaps, die sets, and even the fabric be delivered marred. Fashion designers must acquire the originality that can lead to the success of their brand by creating an enthralling look that identifies with the market they wish to target. There is not only a need to really work hard, but the want to be good at what they do. The entire process is rather daunting in that one is willing give their all so that they can start their own label for there hold many risks. 

            The main goal of fashion is to provide a unique visual in the form of clothing; however, as an ever-changing business, it still lacks the diversity both on the runaway and behind the scenes. There are not many highly-praised black fashion designers that one can name off the top of their head, but ask someone to name thirty Pokémon and they can do it without fail. In this industry, black fashion designers are a rarity. They are not like unicorns, mythical creatures that one has read stories about, but never seen with one’s own eyes, but they are rare, nonetheless. Sure, you have the rap moguls who create their own designs from P Diddy’s, Sean Johnto the homeless stylings of Kanye West.  I am talking about the ones who journeyed into the fashion industry not because it was something to simply stick their toes in, but because fashion was their life; fashion was what they live and breathe. Out of the 470 members of the Council of Fashion Designers of America, only twelve are African-American today. Oddly, there are less black designers now than there were in the 1970’s.  It might not mean something to most, but it is troubling that there is a lack of diversity within an industry that is heavily influenced by the style of African-Americans—Rihanna, for example. 

 Nevertheless, black fashion designers like Armando Cabral and Carly Cushnie—to name a few—not only took great strides with their designs of underground subculture, they were also able to create opportunities for other designers of color trying to make their mark in the fashion world, like Chyna Nesby.

Chyna is a twenty-eight-year-old self-taught designer from Decatur, Georgia. Having sewn since the age of twelve, fashion has become Chyna’s life. At times, she would alter the clothes of her dolls and make them her own. In a sense, fashion chose her.  In the beginning—like many young people—Chyna thought it would be best to choose a career that would gain her assured stability. Computer Science became her major starting school, the study of the principles and use of computers. You can’t fault her for that. In a day and age where computers are gods and not having one means that you are most likely were living under a rock, why not aim for the “safer” target?

            But silly old’ life had other plans. Chyna found herself placing school on pause, and after losing her job as a baker in 2012 and unable to find a job to save her soul, she used that opportunity to pick up the sewing machine. With the help from her best friend, Susie, both began to embark on starting their own business. It was the desire to create and the constant watching of Project Runway that gave Chyna the inspiration she needed to launch her own line.

            “Seeing the finalists present their collections on the season finale would give me so much joy. I would constantly tell myself that will be me one day.”

            After talking about life, love, and what they really wanted in life, both Chyna and Susie developed the name, FierceLove for their clothing line. The name stemmed from the fact that if one was going to do anything, be unapologetically fierce about it. Live Fierce. Love Fierce. And with that, boom! Fierce Love offers various collections from dresses to swimwear. Not excluding men, Fierce Love has created a few men’s items like coats, jogging suits, and a couple of custom pieces she designed for a few men in the past.

            Who wouldn’t love to work for themselves? Set your own hours and being your own boss can tempt the most diehard 9-to-5-er. However, even when with working for yourself in the career you love, there are still some ups and downs. Chyna sees doing her own thing as an amazing feeling. However, with great power comes great responsibility, and with working for yourself, one hundred percent of that responsibility is your own. On the days when you want to just slack off, there is no one to tell you otherwise. In the fashion industry, slacking off is not an option; therefore, Chyna continues with a morning routine of showering, getting dressed, and placing her phone in the other room to keep the 9-to-5 mindset to stay on track.

            Like many fashion designers, many grab inspiration for their designs whether it is from their personal style or styles that they observe. From the street styles of Atlantic Station and Little Five Points to iconic fashion eras of the 50’s, 70’s and 80’s, Chyna gains her creativities. She describes her own personal style as versatile, where she can be a pretty princess on Monday and be a ninja in all black on Friday. To her, fashion is a form of self-expression and individuality. Every chance she gets she is studying fashion; keeping up with all the high-end fashion shows as well as enthralling in its history. For how could we have a stylish future if we don’t know our stylish past?  It is a feeling. When most people assume that having great vogue is following trends, Chyna goes against the masses. Though trends can have influence on what fashion designers create, Chyna stays true to herself by creating what makes her feel good.

            “In turn, when people wear it, they feel good, too. That is what fashion is about.”

            What feels good on her body is the deciding factor in the fabric and material she uses. The choosing of the right fabric can lead to countless hours spent in a fabric store. Her favorites are the stretchy, form-fitting for what makes her feel sexy and confident she knows will make her customers feel the same.

            Though inspiration can be very valuable in the industry of fashion, having the right set of skills is also crucial, as well. A perfectionist when it comes to her garments, Chyna believes that it is necessary for aspiring fashion designers to have great attention to detail. To her, her lines must be perfect. To many, it can seem a tab extra, but Chyna believes that it shows through in her work. Along with technical skills such as pattern making and the obvious sewing. and having dedication, consistency, and integrity as work ethics, Chyna believes that one of the best skills to have is patience. If you do not have the patience that comes along with designing, then you might as well just hang it up.

            Chyna wants to hang in there. Her goals for the next ten years are to own several boutiques that include a few high-end designs, several fashion weeks, and having her clothing being strutted on red carpets and the Met Gala for dream clients, Lupita Nyongo and Vana White after mastering gowns once she learns more about tailoring. Not selfish with her talents, she hopes to inspire less fortunate teens and teach them the skills of sewing thus guiding them towards the awesomeness of entrepreneurship. For them, she advises:

            “Just be patient and keep pushing. It gets rough. There will be stress and there will most certainly be tears. There will also be those beyond amazing moments when you complete something that you never dreamed you could. Seeing a vision that you had come to life is worth fighting for. Also, never stop learning. We will never know it all. The moment we think we do, is the moment we fail. Remain humble, learn whatever there is out there for you to learn, and just grind it out.”

            Black aspiring fashion designers like Chyna are paving the way in attempts to become a commonality in the industry that lacks their talent in hopes of influencing others and improving the history of fashion. Hopefully, there will be an increase of gifted originators like her so that the term of “black designer” will no longer be used in referring to an outsider in the same industry that they greatly influence.

https://shopfiercelove.com/

[brittanithewriter]

Silly Girl

Could she have predicted what the world had in store for her? It has shown itself to be more than tea sets, dolls, and flower dresses. Her vision throughout the years has become impaired, For what she thought was the ways of a lady was misconstrued. What she considered to be class, was nothing more than a bunch of hot ghetto messes. Silly girl. “And what are the goals she wishes to achieve?” One might ask. Does she aspire to be a doctor, a teacher, or even a lawyer? Oh no, she dreams much bigger, Longing for the cameras, lights, and bits of fame. To appear in the music videos so that someone can say that they saw her. Craves to be on the cover of the magazines; pure eye candy. Too bad they won’t even glance at her pretty face; Their focus straight to her bust They’ll have her parading around half-naked for millions to see, Stating that “sex sells” to make it just. So does crack, so it’s all good, right? That short skirt they make her hike. Because to them, she is merely thick thighs and a round backside. So she licks her lips and pokes it out. Shows more skin and rids of shame. Just to get in VIP and not wait in line. Silly girl. What more could she want? A Prada bag and diamond earrings to flaunt. So when she is drunk and deranged, She offered to do something strange, Just to ride passenger in a Lambo instead of a busted Galant. Silly girl. That fast life gives you acceptance, all the hype, Boasting about all the famous men whom she has shared her bed. Plans on writing a book of her encounters to gain exposure. But don’t be fooled. She’s no writer. Just an expert on spreading her legs. Silly girl. Advertises that she is indeed the “business”; so called video vixen, But that headline doesn’t come free. In order to achieve such a title, they demand you shake it fast, But don’t respect yourself. Pop and drop it like the girls on TV. Have a little integrity for that dose of celebrity. Have them call her everything but her name. Claiming that she is not blinded by the stars and the dollar, dollar bills, But when the music played, She was the first to the stage when they made it rain. That attention they give her like novacane. Gorgeous face, but it is what’s behind her that they see as beauty. Get played with like Barbie to live in a dream house. She sets her sights on big wallets and snapping photogs. Strutting around like her “ish” don’t stink; Bragging that she is the baddest b****. But last time I checked, men don’t marry dogs. What happens when the glitter is not gold? When the limelight dims and the fifteen minutes fade abrupt. Those so-called “Ballers” that promised her a spot on their team, Got their feels, and then passed her off like a lay-up. She can’t get enough. Hopefully she will finally realize her true potential, Want more for herself. Deep condition her mind like a head full of curls. In that she will fix the way they define her and gain strength. Wake up as a better woman after falling asleep as a silly girl.

[brittanithewriter]

Sid Story

Life After Toys

By

Brittani

            Hello everyone, my name is Sid and I have Ludilophobia. And yes, you heard me right…I fear toys. Please don’t laugh at me for I already feel embarrassed enough. I cannot even look at Barbie dolls without sweating or having a panic attack. That painted smile is so menacing. No thank you, Barbie. Let’s not go party.

            I was not always this way. I used to love toys. Well, I loved to destroy them. In kindergarten, I loved to swap the heads of dolls, placing their arms where their legs would go and placing their legs where their arms would go. My teacher, Mrs. Hines said that I was “scary”, that I made her “uneasy”, and that I had “alarming qualities that one would see on Dateline”, whatever that meant. My mom would just say that I was unique; a curious boy who was just inquisitive about the mechanics of life. Mrs. Hines told her that she should seek help.

            While everyone wanted to be Dr. Doug Ross from ER, I strived to be like Dr. Frankenstein, assembling humanoid creatures through ambiguous means and successfully bringing them to life… or at least pretending to be. I wanted my sister, Hannah to be my assistant, but she was too busy having tea parties with her dolls. Yuck! My first creature was a hand-in-a-box. I found my old Jack-in-the-box in a box in the garage next to my dad’s nudie magazines with women named after drinks and cars. I pulled off the Jack and replaced it with a fake hand we used as a Halloween decoration. The look of horror on Hannah’s face when the weasel popped will forever be a core memory in my brain. Oh, man, she cried like a little weepy baby. All I could do was laugh so hard that my stomach hurt for days. It was all worth it though.

            Another creature of mine comprised of the torso of a pilot action figure my Uncle Earl gave me for my birthday one year right before he passed out drunk on our yard. I nailed the pilot onto a mini skateboard so that he would get from one end of my room to the other with ease. I could tell that my skills were improving. My hands were precious instruments of surgery and one day, I would share my skills with the world. Instead, I settled for the weird kid next door who always dressed like he was in a western. Some afternoons, I would see him from time to time, galloping around his front yard on an invisible horse while wearing that stupid cowboy hat. Though the “yee-haws” I heard from my bedroom window frustrated me to my core, I thought he would be a better assistant than Hannah. Unfortunately, his mother told him to stay clear of me. She was no fun. Even still, I could not remember his name. I think it was something like Randy. I am not sure.

            Eventually, I was able to create my own Frankenstein monster, my glorious creation! I stole one of Hannah’s baby dolls and put its head on an erector set my dad gave me for Christmas. My little spider baby. It was perfect. Hannah told my mother what I did, and I was grounded, ultimately having to see a therapist for a month, but none of that mattered to me. I was a mad doctor! However, I would not be like Victor and run away from my monsters because of their ugliness. I would cherish them… until I eventually blew them up.

            Explosions were my favorite method. Only a little dynamite… for kids. I loved how the toys blew up into pieces and scattered across my backyard like confetti. Even though I knew what was going to happen, every boom felt like a surprise. When I expressed my joy to my therapist, she said it was very concerning as she raised her brow and scribbled a few notes in her little notebook. She was just jealous for she wished she could join in on the fun. What is so concerning about a little boy’s happiness?

            But all that changed that night I went to get some pizza and play video games after my dad had one of his “moments”. When I looked back at it, I questioned why I had to use my last quarter to get those toys from the machine. I should have known that it was too good to be true when the claw grabbed two instead of one. When has that ever happened in the history of the toy claw? Never! But I was only a kid at the time, and when would I ever get the chance to buy two toys for a quarter? At the time, it seemed like a mere dream, a glorious catch of good luck. There it was the most popular spaceman toy at the time amidst the plush green alien toys. It was pristine as though he was right out of the box. At that moment, I did not feel like a mad doctor. I felt astronomical. I felt like NASA. 

            I maneuvered the claw carefully, taking my time so that when it was time to grab. Steady, I was, like a lioness sneaking up upon her prey, ready to pounce. And bam! The claw gripped his folded arm. My eyes lit up and my smile stretched as far as my face would allow. The level of excitement flowed through my body, coursing through my veins and making my skin feel hot. But I had to remain calm. The battle was won, but there was still a war to fight. I took my time, raising the claw slowly. However, there was some resistance. The spaceman was stuck. It felt like I was in a tug-of-war with whatever was underneath the green alien toys. No! This can’t be! I refused to choose defeat. I pulled as hard as I could until finally the spaceman was set free. Finally! But then there he was, dangling from the space boot was that cowboy with his little brown cowboy boots, cowhide vest, sheriff badge, and that darn brown cowboy hat. I could not believe it. How did I get so lucky? Were the toy gods shining down upon me? It sure as heck felt like it. It was a glorious night, for the next day, I was going to send an astronaut into space.

            That night, I ordered a small rocket, but unfortunately, when it was finally delivered, the rain fell and dampened all my plans. One cannot have it all, I guess. A dream deferred was not a dream denied. I refused to allow the weather to rain on my parade. I decided to set the alarm for sunrise. And though I was filled with excitement, I still slept like a baby, eager for the next day. Little did I know what the next day had in store for me.

            A person would not believe me if I told them. If I were to tell this to a soul, they would have thought I was crazy; however, I swear to you that this is true.

            Morning came and the astronaut was strapped up to the rocket, wrapped in duct tape, and ready to go. I took him to the backyard, making sure I made it out there before my parents woke up. My mom had an extra glass of wine, and my dad chugged a six-pack of his favorite beer; therefore, I had until eleven in the morning at the latest. I placed the spaceman right in the middle of the yard, his plastic butt right atop the blades of already burnt grass from the last explosion. The launch time had commenced, the spaceman was ready to go… and then I heard him.

            “Reach for the sky!”, the voice box said from out of nowhere.

            What? I turned around and there was the cowboy by the sandbox. That damn cowboy. I thought he was busted. He had to be broken; the wires inside of him must have malfunctioned somehow because there was no other way. It couldn’t be Hannah because she usually steered clear of me when it was explosion time, in fear that I would blow her precious dollies into smithereens. If was a broken toy, it would soon be my next victim… until he said my name! He knew my name! I was frozen in fear and my body started to tremble. Doubt raced through my mind for I started to question my sanity. At my sweet young age, was I losing my mind? But before I could even wrap my head around it all, suddenly, the toys that I disregarded and destroyed began to rise from the mud and sandbox like in The Night of the Living Dead. The toys were alive!

            Suddenly, my spider baby descended onto my head like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible. The hand-in-the-box grabbed me by my ankles. They were all coming for me, ready to punish me for everything that I have done to them. I was frozen in fear, my body trembling, and my mouth agape as I watched the cowboy’s head slowly turn around as I held him in my hand. And with burrowed drawn brow and a menacing tone, he sternly told me to “play nice”. Without any hesitation, I dropped him. They surrounded me, slowly making their way to my feet before I ran into the house, screaming hysterically.

            I told my parents, but they didn’t believe me. My dad just smacked me over the head and told me to stop being weird. Hannah took joy in my misery. To her, it was karma finally biting me in the butt. She would chase me around the house with her dolls in her hands. Sometimes, she would sneak into my room at night and place one of her toys beside my pillow so that when I would wake up, I would scream bloody murder. The first time she did that, I had to change my sheets and flip my mattress before my dad found out. After a month of enjoying my torment, Hannah eventually grew bored of it all and left me alone. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the end of the to my nightmare.

            I threw every toy I had away. Goodbye, spider baby. Goodbye, hand-in-a-box. I never say that cowboy or that spaceman again though. I searched high and low for them, but to no avail. I placed the rest of my toys in a cardboard box and wrapped them completely in duct tape. I would have set them on fire, but I didn’t want to risk the chance of angering them any further. Come trash day, the box was placed beside the trash can and picked up by the sanitation workers. From my window, I watched the garbage men stop briefly in front of my house and dump all our trash into the garbage truck. There was a bit of relief as I watched the garbage truck drive away and disappear around the corner. Unfortunately, my troubles did not end there.

            Over the years, I develop night terrors where I would wake up in the middle of the night screaming to the top of my lungs in a cold sweat. My sheets would be drenched from sweat and just a tiny drop of urine.  My nightmares were always about that darn cowboy with his eyes staring right at me as if staring at me right into my soul. He was always telling me to play nice and that he was watching me. No longer would I sleep with the lights off and from that day on, I slept with a bat underneath my pillow. 

After a while, my parents could no longer take my constant night terrors and the disruption of our house at night. Much to my father’s protest, both of my parents ultimately decided to put me in therapy. Dr. Witherspoon became my therapist for two days a week. He was a bearded middle-aged man with thinning hair that made the top of his head look like a cul-de-sac. As cliché as it sounds, I would lie down on a couch and explain everything that I went through. All he did was nod as he took notes in his notepad, uncrossing and recrossing his legs every few minutes.

            It wasn’t that I disliked Dr. Witherspoon; however, after a month of going to him, the fear remained. I could tell by the look on his face as I talked about the Cowboy Incident, that he thought I was either lying or completely off my rocker. He told my parents that I should be prescribed medication, but I refused. I was not crazy for I knew what I saw. The ordeal played on repeat in my thoughts as though stuck in a loop. From that moment on, I refused to attend a birthday party, even though none of my classmates ever invited me in the first place. For Christmas, I urged my parents for gift cards instead of the latest, hottest toy out that year. No more Mattel, goodbye to Toys-R-Us. Only children played with toys and at that moment, I no longer wanted to be a child. After two months, I quit therapy and journeyed on my path of seeking help.

            During my junior year in high school, I dropped out and obtained my GED. I tossed my dreams of becoming a mad scientist away like a used napkin and started working for the Tri-County Sanitation Department. I was going to be a garbage man… and I didn’t mind that. Sure, I smelled like trash and the smell trap itself into every fiber of my clothes; however, the pay was nice, and I get to listen to my music all day. And the best part was that the toys we came across were already too broken and decrepit to even attack me. If they were to try, I had the landfill’s incinerator on my side. It was perfect. There was no need for me to go to college like my classmates, wasting my time as I buried my head in books and being bored out of my mind. Garbage was all I needed in my life, and I was happy.

            It would be a lie to say that my newfound happiness cured me of this inexplicable fear of a child’s plaything. There were moments I struggled every time I walked past the toy aisle of a store. Every doll, every action figure; my skin would become hot, and my palms would start to sweat. My heart would quicken its pace every time a “try me” was pressed by every curious child and parent. Toys were no longer a part of my life anymore. And that was ok.

            Sid stood in front of the members of his support group after he finished telling his story, met with supportive and sympathetic eyes. The counselor stood up from his chair with half a smile on his face.

            “Thank you for sharing that with us, Sid.” The counselor said.

            The rest of the group agreed, nodding their heads, and softly clapping their hands in encouragement. Sid smiled as he stared around the circle. There is a slight feeling of relief after he spoke his truth and shared his story. There was no shame or looks of judgment, only understanding.

            “So, who is next?” The counselor asked.

Betty, the two-time divorcee raised her hand. Her phobia was for pickles. Sid sat down to make way for her to tell her story, a story that she had told several times before. Each time was an encounter she had with a pickle at a restaurant. All she needed to do was to stop eating out, but everyone already accepted the fact that her problems were more of an addiction to wanting attention than getting through her phobia. However, wasn’t that why everyone was there? 

Each person came once a week to sit amongst others and gain sympathy for a weird defect that they had, while they reveled in the euphoria of being heard and not judged. Finally, Sid found his tribe. With them, he wasn’t seen as crazy or urged to seek professional help. To them, Sid’s phobia was something real and not some sad joke from a pathetic man. They took him seriously.

            Eight o’clock on a Friday evening hit and the weekly meeting ended. Everyone went around and gave each other their goodbye hugs and handshakes, promising to keep in touch until their next meeting the following week. Betty stopped Sid on his way to the exit. The gentle touch of his arm, her sheepish grin, and her struggle to make eye contact only confirmed the crush Sid already knew she had for him.

“You know, when I was a little girl, I could have sworn my toys were moving around while I slept,” Betty said, “I swear I would leave my Barbie on the floor only for her to end up right beside me on the bed. So… I guess we have something in common.”

“Uh, I guess so,” Sid said.

Suddenly, his phone rang. Saved by the bell. It was Hannah. This was the first time Sid was happy to hear from her. Their sibling relationship was not the greatest. Due to his constant bullying of her as a kid and her tormenting him after a traumatic experience, their relationship was a bit on the estranged side. They would see each other for Christmas and birthdays, but that was as far as their relationship would go.

“You will have to excuse me. It’s my sister,” Sid told Betty, “Family matters.”

“Of course, I understand,” Betty said with a disappointed tone.

Sid exited and started to walk to his car. Thank God and thank you, Hannah.

“Hannah? What’s up?” Sid answered the phone.

“Hey.” Hannah greeted, “I was calling you to remind you about your nephew’s birthday party tomorrow.”

“I don’t need to be reminded. I remembered.” Sid said, “Noon,  right?”

“Right.” Hannah answered, “So, don’t be late. And don’t forget a gift.”

“I have the perfect gift in mind already.”

“Please don’t get him another puzzle,” Hannah groaned, “I’m still finding pieces from the last one you bought him all around the house.”

            Darn. That was exactly what he was going to give to him. Thank goodness he saved the receipt for back to Target he will go.

            “What about a gift card?” Sid asked.

            “He is seven years old, for goodness’ sake. Just buy him a toy!” Hannah argued.

            Sid froze as a chill ran through his body like blood coursing through his veins at the sheer utter of that three-letter word. Was Hannah insane? After over fifteen years, Sid wondered why his sister could be so oblivious and insensitive.

            “Hannah, are you serious?” Sid asked in disbelief, “You know I can’t do that!”

            “Are you still on that, Sid?” Hannah asked with a slight chuckle, “You’re a grown man still being misled by his imagination. I thought it was funny when we were younger, but now, it is just plain sad.”

            Hannah was right, it indeed was, and Sid knew that. He was a grown man scared of things that brought little children joy. Even his nephew had more courage and bravery than he did. But to Sid’s defense, neither one of them experienced what he went through that day, for if they did, they would never even look in the same direction of another toy again. The thought of going through the aisles caused him to sweat profusely. That scary moment of his childhood flashed through his mind, replaying in his head as if stuck in a horrible loop.

            “Sid?” Hannah called out, “Are you there?”

            Sid snapped back to reality. He loved his nephew very much for he reminded him of a younger, yet better version of himself. Instead of destroying toys and wreaking havoc, his nephew loved to build things and make them better. He loved to play with them and create worlds with him in his imagination. Unlike Sid, his nephew loved toys.

            “I’m here.” Sid finally answered, “I will get him a toy. I promise.”

            “Great,” Hannah said.

            “What kind of toys does he like?” Sid asked.

            “Well, lately, he’s been horses,” Hannah replied.

            Both hung up the phone. And it begins.

            The next morning right, before the birthday party, Sid drove to Target for going to Walmart crossed his mind; however, there was something about the red store that gave him an enormous amount of comfort. The aisles were clean with the inventory stacked neatly and organized with polite customers and helpful employees.  But Sid refused to go in. He remembered what happened the last time he walked past the toy aisle. He immediately became dizzy and passed up, waking up in the back of an ambulance. Now, thanks to technology, Sid no longer had to deal with anxieties. All he needed was an app and he could make a  pick-up order.   However, the hard part was not over for he still had to scroll through the toys on the app and find the perfect horse toy. It was agonizing, but he finally found the right one. He placed it in the cart, paid, and scheduled a pick-up time for an hour from now.

            Sid parked on the side of the store in parking space #3. He checked in through the app, letting them know his parking space number and the color of his car. After a minute or two, an employee came out with the toy in a large Target bag with his name placed right in front. Sid unlocked the doors so that the employee could put the bag in the backseat. Sid watched the bag from the rearview mirror like a hawk. Every few seconds, he would take his eyes off the road as he drove and stared back at it. Sid waited anxiously in anticipation, for if that toy was to move in just the slightest, he was prepared to swerve the car off the road. It was that serious to Sid.

            He made it to Hannah’s house, thankfully without incident. The bag never moved once. As he went to grab the bag from the backseat, he froze again. His arms reached to grab it, but his hand refused to touch. Sweat began to form from the top of his forehead and slowly trail down the side of his head. The beating of his heart started to quicken. It was a panic attack. Sid was having a panic attack at his seven-year-old nephew’s birthday party. Pathetic.

            “Sid?” a female’s voice called out.

            Sid turned to see Hannah standing in the doorway of her front door. Hannah looked at her older brother oddly.

            “What are you doing, Sid?” Hannah asked.

            With a deep breath and a quick count of three, Sid hastily grabs the bag. He turned around and held it up for Hannah to see, smiling with both fear and pride.

            “I bought him a toy,” Sid said.

            Hannah could not believe her eyes as she took a step back in disbelief. Hannah smiled for it was the first and only time she had ever given her older brother one. Usually, the expression on her face was always contempt and disgust, but she was impressed by his redemption for her son’s birthday party. She wondered if maybe he was becoming a better person.

            “Well, come on. The party already started.” Hannah waved him inside. 

            Sid’s mind was racing a mile a minute as he walked from his car to the front door, his peripheral vision focused on the top of the toy horse’s head as it peeked out of the bag. One wrong move and he was going to lunge that bag like a football and send it to the county line. Nothing. 

Once he reached the front door, there was an awkward moment about whether the two siblings should hug or not. They decided on a handshake. There was no need to change up interactions for the occasion.

            “I’m glad you could come,” Hannah said as she and Sid entered her house, her closing the door behind her.

            Those words hit Sid at his heartstrings, for in his thirty-something years of living, never had anyone uttered anything remotely close to that to him. Most of the time, they would try to avoid him at all costs. It felt nice to feel wanted.

            “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Sid replied.

He could hear children laughing and adults talking to one another from the back of the house. There was happiness in the air, along with the aroma of pizza and hot dogs.  The anxiety left Sid’s body and a calmness came over him. Maybe he was over this fear. Maybe it was him that kept phobia alive and allowed it to control his life.  Hannah led Sid to the kitchen and dining room in the house. Just as Sid turned the corner, the smile he entered the home with quickly fell. From the balloons to the streamers to the banner that read “Howdy, Timmy. Happy Birthday!”, it was a western-themed party. Hannah decorated the dining room as though it was a saloon. All the children were dressed like cowboys, running around, and shooting their fake toy guns as though they were in a shootout. 

The Target bag fell from Sid’s hand and onto the floor. This was his nightmare. Suddenly, Timmy ran up to him. Timmy wore a red and yellow checkered long-sleeved collar shirt, a cowhide vest, blue jeans, brown boots, a brown cowboy hat, and a red bandana tied around his neck. He was the epitome of the thing that haunted Sid for all those years, the thing that plagued his nightmares and the reason that holding that Target bag was excruciating agony for him.

“Yay, Uncle Sid,” Timmy said excitedly, “you came.”

Before Sid could reply, he found himself screaming at top of his lungs and running around, tearing down the banner and streamers, popping the balloons, and making all the children cry. He was a madman, crazed and manic. All he could hear was the cowboy’s voice telling him to play nice. Sid refused. No more playing nice. It took two dads to stop him right before he could damage the cake with the little cowboy holding a lasso on top.

            Sid was not invited to any more birthday parties after that. Hannah threw away the horse he bought for Timmy and severed all ties with him. It was most likely for the best.

“Hello, my name is Sid and I have Ludilophobia.” Sid said to the group.

            “Hi, Sid.” The group replied.

[brittanithewriter]

The Muse

By

Brittani Harris

The words, “Chapter One” glared back at me on the computer screen; two words that taunted me for the last two hours. What was to come after was a complete mystery to me. How do I start? What sounds intriguing enough to capture the reader in only one sentence? My mind drew a blank. No wonder seeing that my day was spent pacing back and forth in my one-bedroom apartment, torturing myself over a lousy sentence. This would be my third book and because of that, expectations were through the roof. I had something to prove because I refused to be a two-hit novelist; coasting off that fame years later. No, I was more than that. For hours, I sat at my desk in my sweats and coffee-stained shirt, gazing at the screen of my laptop like I was the undead. My eyes were nearly bloodshot from the lack of sleep and my skin was pale from the deprivation of sunlight.

In the back of my mind, I could hear my editor's shrill voice screaming about deadlines. She invaded my brain like a Nazi; a literary parasite. She had come over earlier, dressed in her gray pantsuit and red blouse from Nordstrom. Her blonde hair with dark roots was placed in a high bun as she barked at me like a Chihuahua. Over the years, I have known her, she has always been a bit of a prude. I have learned to zone her out, focusing my eyes on her crow’s feet and the way her lipstick always managed to smear onto her teeth. Given a few beers, I would probably find her somewhat attractive. Somewhat.

Much time had passed and the sun started to set. My thoughts were frozen in time and I could not for the life of me figure out a way to throw them out. “What to write, what to write?”, I asked myself as I tried my talents at balancing a pencil on the bridge of my nose. My genre was crime thrillers and serial killers for everyone loves a good psychopath, but everything has been done. From the slashers to the immortal maniac who just won’t die; there was nothing new under the sun. Some fresh air was in order. Hopefully, a night ride would get the literary juices flowing. There was a solace to be found during the night. It wasn’t the normal hustle and bustle one would experience during the day. There were fewer cars, but louder people; fewer things going on, but more secrets. The scattered lights decorated the buildings downtown as lights streamed across a Christmas tree. It is said that the night belonged to the poets and the madmen. I straddled the fence to which one was I.

            As I drove through the deserted city streets, I gazed at the empty sidewalks and blinking streetlights. It was all my inspiration; the moon was my spotlight. The night was my canvas for many stories were just waiting to be painted. However, where was my muse? Where was the catalyst to spark my imaginative thoughts? All there were a scatter of homeless laying their heads wherever they may. They rested on the sidewalks and the curbs, the benches of the bus stop. A serial killer of the homeless? A brilliant idea if it wasn’t already done by James Matheson three years ago, in his book, The Jefferson Street Killer. A madman brings fear into the shanty towns of Jefferson Street, Philadelphia. Spoiler Alert—the killer was the mayor of the city bent on cleaning up his city one bum at a time. Original, I suppose.

Originality is always key; however, there are only several stories a writer can write about. Nothing will be the same, but there would be similarities. I despise similarities. My editor hated it more. I imagined her kale smoothie breath exhaling upon my neck, snarling the words “mediocre” and “bland” as though they were profane. September 15th continued to flash across my mind like a torturing reminder of my possible impending failure. I refused to hang onto the teats of mediocrity. Destiny deserved to give me more. Success was warranted for me.

My stomach began to growl. All I had to eat today was Greek yogurt I found in the back of the refrigerator behind a week-old carton of milk. I must remind myself to throw it in the trash once I get home. I couldn’t survive off that, ten cups of coffee, and a can of Red Bull alone. Up ahead, I could see the large sign for Ezra’s Diner, with the light on the “z” out and leaving it to read Era. It was open all day, known for its fluffy pancakes and delicious, sweet tea that tasted the closest to diabetes. Before I realized it, the car was steering into the parking lot. I parked out front, somewhere close where I could see the car from wherever I sat. Though I do love the night, I knew of the hoodlums who saw it as their own criminal playground.

Heading toward the entrance, I could already see that there was only one cook and one waitress working tonight. In a booth at the far end of the diner, there was a homeless woman comforting herself with a cup of coffee, dressed in dingy layers of clothing, looking as though she had not bathed in days. Faint music played throughout the diner. It was something from the eighties, but I couldn’t name the specific song. I made myself comfortable at the counter on a stool, greeted with a tired hello from the waitress as she placed the menu in front of me. She was dressed in a yellow diner shirt and white apron, with her sandy blonde curls, pulled back into a ponytail. Judging by her hands and the slight wrinkles that formed on her forehead every time she made a curmudgeon expression, she was nearing her mid-forties.

            Glancing through the menu, my hunger decided on an omelet and a glass of water. I could feel my body rejecting the caffeine as though I was going through a withdrawal. It didn’t take long for my omelet. I commended the chef with a thumbs-up on his timely cooking skills; fast, but still with top quality. The first bite was the sweetest; not too cheesy, but just cheesy enough. As it hit my taste buds, it felt like heaven. It was at that moment, all thoughts surrounding my book faded away. I could care less about the plot or a great title. I couldn’t even think up a measly character. My mind was as blank as the homeless woman’s gaze. No, this omelet was all I needed. Unfortunately, my editor’s voice crept into my head, nagging me to stay focused.

Deadlines, deadlines, deadlines! The witch would not leave me in peace.

Suddenly, the bell rang as the entrance door swung open. The waitress looks at the door, managing a half-grin. My eyes were fixed on my plate as I cut the omelet into reasonable pieces with the side of my fork. Through my peripheral vision, I could see someone dressed in red from the chest to above the knee approaching me. I turned slightly, seeing it was in fact a red dress worn by a woman of a slim frame. The dress looked expensive. I was never the one for keeping up with fashion, but I questioned why a woman dressed like that would even trouble herself to step into an establishment like this. As she drew nearer, I could smell her perfume. It was a mixture of a sweet floral scent and fruit candy. The aroma was slightly intoxicating the closer she became. She stood beside me, asking the waitress for a cup of coffee with four creams and four sugars, refusing to see a menu. Her voice was slightly shaken as she spoke to the waitress as though nervous about something. There was a slight southern drawl in certain annunciation in words. My first guess was Texas. With a nod, the waitress went to make a fresh brew of coffee.

The woman sat at the counter with a stool placed between us. As the waitress began to pour coffee into her cup, I timed a quick glance where I could fully see her thick long brunette hair that she slung to the right. Her skin was of an olive hue; flawless. She reminded me of a character from my first book, “Lavender and Lust”. She was the real-life Sophia Schaffer, having an outer innocence that hid a deceiving interior. Sophia was the female lead in a crime thriller filled with seduction and twists. She was charming and manipulative, able to persuade any man with her feminine wiles. Initially, I based her off an ex of mine who I found sleeping with her professor in the bed we shared. Like the mattress, our relationship went up in flames.

Miss Red Dress had my full attention. I subtly watched her slowly drink her coffee and stare into the mug as though it was a crystal ball that contained all the answers.

“My name is Veronica; in case you were asking.” she greeted, catching me off guard and causing me to almost choke on a piece of omelet.

            I washed my food down with a glass of water. Even still, I was at a loss for words. It was unusual for a writer, I suppose. We locked eyes for a second, me gazing into her piercing greens. She exuded an unbelievable beauty; something I could not put into words. She was more than a Sophia. Before I could say a word, my name left her lips. I loved how it sounded; sweet. She immediately recognized me, stating how she read both of my books and was an admirer of my work. I could only chuckle nervously for the picture used in the back of my book was a seven-year-old headshot originally for a failed-to-start acting career. I confirmed who I was which started an exchange of flirtatious dialogue between us. Her voice was steady and more relaxed as she shared stories of her childhood in Louisiana. I was caught on her every word. I loved how her eyes lit up every time she spoke about her ideas and aspirations. She went on to tell me how my first book was her favorite; how she could identify with Sophia. How I described her independence was what intrigued her. Veronica went on and on about how she admired Sophia’s strength. Typical. Women seemed to always identify with a strong female lead; a woman in control. That is what Veronica wanted in life-- control.

Our conversation went on for over an hour, her coffee getting cold and my plate nearly clean. Veronica took a pocket mirror from her purse and stared at her reflection, making sure her lipstick was still intact. In my eyes, she was of complete perfection. She was my new Sophia sent to be by unknown circumstances. It wasn’t long before I felt her hand upon my thigh, gently caressing. I could see a lustful grin on her face as blood began rushing to my lower body. I was a fly trapped in her shameless web. With a flick of the hand, I gestured to the waitress for our checks. It was necessary that she knew how much of a gentleman I was. Veronica leaned closer and whispered in my ear that she wanted to take me home. Goosebumps formed on my neck and forearms. One cannot force those willing, and I was more than that. As she stood up from her stool, my eyes fixated on her backside. Her hips swayed from side to side as she headed toward the exit, looking over her shoulder and winking back at me. The check could not have come more quickly. Five dollars for the omelet with two extra dollars for a generous tip.

I hurried after Veronica out onto the parking lot. She stood beside the black Toyota Corolla, leaning against the passenger side, motioning me over with her finger. With a press of a button, the doors were unlocked, and we both climbed inside. Starting up the car, the radio played early nineties rock music faintly through the stereos. Veronica crept her hand onto my thigh, moving higher toward the crotch of my pants as I drove through the streets with no specific destination in my mind. My mind was flustered by all the blood left for the south. She leaned in closer, and me feeling her breath on my neck with the slight touch of her lips. Her sexuality was inebriating; a strong aroma filled the car and gave my body chills. She directed me to turn left on the next street. There was a dark alley up ahead that was secluded and private. Veronica had charmed my mind and now, she wanted to enthrall my body.

I parked away from the streetlights to remain unseen and turned off the car. The silence was immediately broken by her lips and body pressing up against her mind. Her lips were as soft as pillows and her skin was just as smooth. She tasted like sweet hazelnut coffee and her hair smelled like lilacs; freshly washed. My hands maneuvered throughout her body causing her to moan in sensual ecstasy. Slowly, my hand slipped into her shirt, palming her ample breasts, while my other hand gently gripped her neck. Veronica playfully chuckled for she liked a bit of the rough. She was such a Sophia. Tighter I gripped her neck with both hands this time, pressing harder onto her lips. Her breathing became labored as she struggled for air which made me squeeze tighter. Her whimpers and gasps were arousing. I could feel her tears stream from her eyes onto my face. There was a need to scream, but she could not obtain enough air.

A few seconds passed and the breathing ceased; no whimpers or gasps. There was silence. Her body was limp and I could feel all of her weight. I leaned back to stare at her face, seeing that life had left her eyes. They were no longer piercing but rather a dull green. Her beauty forever remained. My beautiful Sophia. I placed her carefully onto the passenger seat, placing her arms gently on her lap. With the back of my hands, I wiped her tearful face dry, feeling the warmth of her skin. I exited the car and headed to the trunk. Popping it open, there inside was the lifeless body of my editor, still in her gray pants suit and now wrinkled red blouse, lying in the trunk of her own car. Her bun unraveled, leaving her hair disarrayed messily over her place face. Her neck was badly bruised. I could see and feel the moment when my neck eventually snapped from my strength. She was like a rag doll; cold and pale. Reaching behind her, I retrieved the gas can I filled up at the gas station around the corner from my apartment.

Starting with the trunk, I drenched my editor’s body with gasoline as though quenching her thirst. I continued with the rest of the car, making sure the bodies got the most out of it all. The smell of the gasoline was gradually becoming nauseating. No longer could I admire my work without feeling the urge to heave. A small box of matches in my front pocket. A quick scratch of the match and the flames were ignited. I took a second to marvel at what I had just done; what I accomplished literally with my bare hands. A simple flick and the car was engulfed in flames within seconds. The scene was entrancing; the warmth from the fire was oddly comforting. Free was the only word to describe how I felt at that exact moment. No more deadlines, no due dates, and no pressure. The best feeling of all was that I finally had my story. The characters and plot were swiftly developing in my mind as the stench of burning flesh reached my nose. A writer who killed for his stories. It was brilliant.

            Police sirens were heard blaring in the distance. My veneration was coming to an end. A smile emerged on my face as I disappeared into the night, heading home with the start of the first chapter pulsating through my head. 

“There was a need for excitement and danger for him. There was a need for blood.”