Axiom Thorne: Portrait of a Lady Unraveling

Axiom Thorne is tall and wiry, with skin the color of whole milk that’s been warmed over a slow fire, then forgotten on the bedside table. Her white-blond tresses hang like teaser curtains around her angular face, obscuring it when she doesn’t feel like letting you see her long, thin nose, or her sharp jaw, or the fear creases that whisper across her forehead like stray hairs.

When you do get to see her face, the first thing you see is the dark black makeup streaking her eyes and the irises that cut through it like emeralds half-buried in soot. Her lips, also painted black, curl into a smirk more often than a smile. She inherited her mother’s elven ears and her father’s humanly sardonic wit.

Stick around and she might shift her hair all the way back behind her shoulders with long bony fingers that poke out of black leather gauntlets. She uses her mother’s “parlor magic” — as her nasty aunt would scoff — to add a shimmering holographic affect to chunks of her locks so that they reflect the light in ever-changing pink, blue, green, silver, back to pink flashes.

When she first boarded the Tenacious Sea with the others, she wore a runaway’s uniform: Dark tunic belted at the waist over nondescript breeches tucked into sensible boots. Since then, she’s been gifted far more fitting regalia for a future deity of the dead. A crown of vipers’ fangs sits precariously atop her head, a proud change from the hood she once used to shroud herself. Shiny black snakeskins knit and fuse together to create a harness and chest plate that cuts just above form-fitting pants made of the same dark scaly material. Slices of her white thighs reveal themselves between the loose weaving, invisibly protected by the armor’s magic. Stare at her new black platform boots long enough and you might see a beetle crawl up a wedged heel, over the lacing that binds around her calf, over its edge and into the safety inside of it.

The one thing Axiom has kept from her first appearance on the Tenacious Sea is also the only piece of color she deems fit to wear: A striped scarf, scrappy and uneven. Be careful not to touch it: Each color is the materialized aura of someone from whom she’s stolen magic. The scarf itself won’t taken anything from you, but it’s best not to let her or the Man with the Diamond Shoes and Gravel Voice know that you’ve taken an interest in it.

Don’t stare too long at the Whip of Certain Death at Axiom’s hip, either. Another upgrade since setting sail: It hangs in a coil not unlike the snakes that gave up their skins for her armor. And somehow it’s the mostly tightly wound item you’ll find on this woman who’s mentally unraveling all the while you’re looking at her.

Axiom Thorne: I saw Ansel kissing Flora Jayne

With our crew number shrinking and body count growing, it’s come to my attention that the ensemble on the Hydra might want to know what the fuck is going on.

Ansel asked me that once — in those exact words, too.

“What the fuck is going on, Axiom?” He screamed from the center of the locust- and beetle-filled vortex spinning around him. Though at that time, I had to answer honestly: “I don’t know.”

Momma had died by that time.

Wait — Momma’s not dead. She just forgot I exist, that’s all. Sorry: I can’t keep straight which version of the story I’ve told you. There have been so many variations at this point.

So Momma was still alive and well. She was in the kitchen, though whether she was cooking, baking or fixing something is foggy in my memory. Momma did it all because there was no one else who could.

Ansel and I had to be 13 or 14. I think it wasn’t too much time after Stephan the Baker’s Boy disintegrated into bony mulch on the riverbank. Even on the hottest days that summer, every time I saw a beetle scuttle across my window sill or heard a cicada in the tree, I grew chilly under the colorful striped scarf tied around my neck. Just the buzz of a worker bee would force me to look at everyone in the vicinity and think lovely things about them, just in case it could save them from whatever I had conjured up to eat Stephan alive.

Maybe it worked. Or maybe it was paranoia triggered by literal garden-variety insects — in any case, by that fall, I had started to let my guard go.

Until I saw Ansel kissing Flora Jayne.

Yes, Momma was definitely fixing something. The strong smell of wood stain had permeated the house and sent me fleeing outside, mind swimming in a lake that was starting to drain from my eyes. There they were, in the eaves of Flora Jayne’s house next door, holding each other close. Ansel was on tiptoe, as puberty hadn’t yet blessed him with the foot he’d grow when we were 15. Flora Jayne, like most villainous popular girls in these kinds of stories, had woken up one day at 14 with a fully developed woman’s body and a seemingly intuitive knowledge of how to use it to her advantage.

So there I was, still a lanky frame of knobby joints and flat flesh, standing on the back porch, trying to free my lungs of wood stain stink, and instead I had the breath in my lungs crushed out by the blurry sight of two figures standing just 20 feet away.

I wish I could tell you that I wiped the tears out of my eyes to make sure I wasn’t just delusional from the fumes. I wish I could tell you that I found that it wasn’t Ansel, but Charly Moon from down the road, with her newly shorn hair, kissing the woman who would later be her wife. And maybe in a different version of this story, that will be the case, but in today’s memory of it, there was no doubt that it was Ansel and Flora Jayne.

The weight of an invisible hand landed on my shoulder, and the gravel roll of a voice purred in my ear words that I don’t dare repeat now that I know what they’ll create.

Ansel came flying toward me, landing on his knees in the barren yard behind our house. Flora Jayne screamed, then grew silent. The hand that had been on my shoulder seemed to be clapped over her mouth now, and I could see faint colorful stripes fade into the gray masonry of the house behind her. The life didn’t leave her eyes; it just decided to stand still at their windows, watching helplessly.

I turned my attention to Ansel, who just weeks before had been sitting with me on the same dirt patch he lay prone in now. We had built a tent and watched the stars together, inches of bloated space between our skin saying more than if we had been snuggled together like we had been as small children.

The dirt around him grew darker, wetter. Soon it was mud, and the mud was writhing in the same way it had around the Baker’s Boy’s feet. I turned back to Flora Jayne, pleading the spot above her head to make it stop. The crusty deep reply came from right beside me: “It’s entirely in your control.”

I tried to think of every nice memory I had of Ansel to keep the bugs at bay, but my mind was clouded by the realization that while I had no reason to expect it, I wasn’t the only girl in Ansel’s life. That there were others and would always be others, because our long half-elf lives were just beginning. But while I had no right to claim him for myself on that summer’s day, my heart shrieked otherwise as it shrank yet another size smaller inside my chest.

The wind kicked up, lifting the edge of my own scarf so that it tickled my cheek. A cyclone had started rising from the dirt, carrying with it every manner of insect in a flurry of wings, stingers and tiny teeth.

“What the fuck is going on, Axiom?” Ansel yelled.

“I don’t know,” I cried, wishing it would stop. I turned to Flora Jayne and her invisible captor. “Make it stop,” I begged.

“You’ll have to get used to not being the only one,” the invisible man said.

Another look back at Ansel. I am not special, I thought. But if I’m not special, how can I do this?

“Because you have me,” the rock-tumbler voice said.

“Please,” I begged, squeezing my eyes shut, as if it would make me deaf to Ansel’s screams. “Please make it stop. I’m not special. I need your help.”

“Good girl,” the Man with the Colorful Scarf and Diamond Shoes said, his unseen hand giving my shoulder a squeeze that turned off the noise around me.

When I opened my eyes, I was on the porch still, and when I looked over to see if the Man in the Colorful Scarf and Diamond Shoes was still there, instead I saw Ansel and Flora Jayne kissing, just as I had before. A lone cricket sang in the hedge. The patch of dirt in the yard was cracked and dry, much like my heart, which was now considerably smaller and harder than it had been before I stepped outside that day.

Take it or leave it, of course. I’ve been lying to you fairly steadily since we started this voyage. Why would I stop now?

Follow Axiom Thorne through her character’s Spotify playlist.

To all the jerks I’ve wasted time on before

With the release of Disney’s Cruella trailer, critic Carrie Wittmer tweeted this:

Yes! It’s hard not to notice this new trend, especially as it skulks into the room wearing a manmade cape that’s screenprinted with the words “Female Empowerment!” That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy Promising Young Woman, Queen’s Gambit and WandaVision — on the contrary, I’m a huge fan (I haven’t seen The Flight Attendant yet, but it’s on my list). Cruella might be the film that breaks the projector, however, if Disney decides to Harley Quinnivize the most 2D, chaotic evil villain they’ve ever had on screen.

The woman wants a coat made of puppy fur. It’s not that deep, Diz.

But before the hunger for erratic yet enjoyable femme characters gets over-fed (and we might already be teetering on the edge of the Monty Python “Just a Thin Mint” sketch), I’ve been thinking of my own way of processing things and how that might be turned into something that adds to this cacophony.

I’m a writer struggling with her current WIP. What else am I supposed to do?

When I’m hurt and/or angry, I turn to music. Listening, mind you: I compensate for my lack in musical talent (apart from 2-3 years of piano lessons) with an insatiable thirst for new bands, sounds and genres. But there’s a reason why in early 2020, the Birds of Prey soundtrack played on loop. And why SZA’s “Drew Barrymore” makes me think of this one particular high rise in Chicago’s River North neighborhood. And why My Chemical Romance’s “I Don’t Love You” brings up memories of at least three people who have exited my life.

So here’s my pitch, thanks entirely to seeing Wittmer’s tweet and wishing I had learned to play guitar at a young age:

It’s a reversed To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before for adults. A rock band singer finds out that her bandmates accidentally invited all of her exes to their supposed-to-be-tiny reunion show taking place at a pre-renovation closed strip club (the dusty floors, the mirrors, the randomly placed poles! So much drama!). Each chapter takes her through a song she thinks of when she sees them and tells the story of why. It’s the ultimate revenge fantasy: telling the men in her life exactly what she thinks about them now that she’s gotten out from under them and into her own spotlight…by being in the spotlight that none of them ever knew she could command.

I’d write more here, but I’d rather write more somewhere else. You might see some trial runs on this site or even a Spotify playlist link as it takes shape.

Now to go explain to Lucky Ellis why I’m ignoring her for a while…

Excerpt from “Stet:” Agatha comes home

I walk back across the street to my apartment after two more beers. The summer days have started stretching into evening, so when I roll into bed I sink my face into the pillow against the orange sunlight streaking the wall through the slatted blinds.

A phone rings in the distance, getting louder. When I lift my face off the pillowcase in desperate need of a wash, I see that the orange has brightened into synthetic white as city lights replace the setting sun. Somehow I find my phone woven into my cocoon of sheets.

“This is Mary from Moundsville Mental Hospital,” says a voice on the other end, too happy with itself for conveniently holding a name alliterative with her place of employment. “We’ve got a Miss Agatha Lydecker here, and she needs to be taken home. You’re on her list of emergency contacts, so we thought you might be available to pick her up?”

We arrive back at my apartment in what seemed like no time at all, and I tuck her onto the couch in the living room. She falls asleep quickly, and I return to my room, this time flopping onto my back. I close my eyes and try to let my breathing drop into the same rhythm as the humming icemaker in the kitchen.

But I can’t fall into sync. I’m too busy listening to the silence coming from the living room, which screams that something’s not right. I get up and pad down the hall to the couch. Agatha hasn’t moved. I go back to my bed, assuring myself that she’ll be fine, at least until she wakes up in a stranger’s apartment in hospital scrubs, the only clothes they had for her. I don’t know why they couldn’t dress her in what she wore when she was admitted.

I’m finally an exhale away from icemaker meditation when I hear a creak in the living room. With a sigh I lift myself out of bed, but I don’t make it down the hall. Instead, I’m frozen at my bedroom door, looking down the ten feet of empty space at where the living room is, only to find that I’m not looking at empty space — I’m watching Agatha pirouetting on the other side.

Before I can call out to her, she stops spinning, facing the kitchen like a statue. She slowly pivots to face me, and a shaft of midnight city light slices across her face to illuminate her eyes, narrowed in concentration. Or is it anger? The pupils reflect the light like a cat’s, and there’s no other word for what I’m seeing:

Ghostly.

I back away, unsettled but refusing fear. Agatha continues to watch me, the light framing her scowling eyes before she starts to pirouette again, turning a few times, then stepping forward into another turn, slowly coming down the hall toward me. I hear panicked breathing and think it’s her. It’s me.

I inch backward into the bedroom, about to close the door, but decide to have one more peek. She’s just standing there, scrubs hanging off her slight frame like rags off a scarecrow’s frame.

I close the door anyway and get onto the bed, contemplating my options. My phone is on the kitchen table, where I left it after putting Agatha to bed. Below the window is a 30-foot drop. My walk-in closet is better defined as a gaze-in closet because it’s so full of boxes, clips and dirty laundry. As I sit among the sheets reeking from sweat spent on nightmares about what happened to Agatha, I realize that now that I’ve learned what happened to her, I’m terrified of her.

Then I hear her call my name. The voice is so faint that it must be coming from the couch. I hear it again. Part of me wants to answer — is sure that I must have just been seeing things, letting her recounts of ghost-hunting get to me, or letting guilt invade — but I can’t move. I try, but I can’t. This isn’t the sleep paralysis I usually have the night before going to press. This is being literally too scared to move.

She calls my name again. I can’t budge. Maybe she’ll roll over and go back to sleep, wiped out from her ballet interlude in the hallway. Maybe she’ll be confused and leave the apartment altogether. Either would be a win at this point, I think, but the Good Person inside slaps my conscience on the wrist. I’d answer her, but I can’t form words. My mouth is locked shut.

There’s my name again. It’s louder, but still a whisper. It’s right in my ear, and I feel breath on my face and eyelashes against my temple as I hear it. I gain the ability to blink, and I take the opportunity to crush my eyes shut against the sound, the feeling, the smell of sweat-rotted sheets steeped in insomnia. The knowledge that somehow, Agatha is right next to me, and I won’t be able to fight her off or even talk her down because I don’t know how I got this way. She got this way, I mean.

My fault, I whisper again in my head.

“Yes, it is,” I hear Agatha’s voice say, clear as day. My eyes explode open, and I see her illuminated by the light intruding through the windows, her face maniacal as she laughs at me, frozen on my bed. Dense smoke curls up the walls, creeping out from under her feet as it shrouds both of us but doesn’t stifle the sound of her laugh, which turns into angry screams, then just screams.

It’s me screaming. I’m screaming as I wake up in my apartment. The city lights illuminate stripes of the past tenant’s wallpaper dotted with wallflowers that refuse to dance to the icemaker’s hum. I’m drenched in sweat.

Telling myself it was a dream, I step into the hall. No pirouetting reporter at the end. I creep forward. No Agatha on the couch, either. My keys are still on the hook next to the door, and I take my phone from the kitchen table. Satisfied, I return to bed, trying to convince myself that I must have left the phone there when I walked in from the bar, even though I haven’t slept without it next to me in five years.

Why Wade Higgs decided to rob trains with his two brothers, his cousin and a man named Squirrel

When Wade Higgs was twelve years, four months and three days old, he made two discoveries that would change the course of his life for the coming two decades.

The first was that his family was poor. His new clothes, though clean and whole, were consistently handed down from his older brother, Trent, and his old clothes went to his younger brother, Job. Dinner, while hearty and tasty, was often a simple vegetable slop, as pork was pricey and deer was dear. Every season came with fewer cattle on the ranch, and every winter came with fewer logs for the fire. And when all of this came to his attention, he made the second discovery:

Whiskey tasted good and made him feel better.

Clark Roberson from two ranches over had come by on a new horse, newly sired by his father’s workhorse and another neighbor’s mare. He was 14 and mean as a horsefly, never leaving behind an opportunity to gloat in the face of those who worshipped the ground he walked on. Until this day, Wade was one of them: Convinced that Clark was the epitome of young manhood.

“Like it?” Clark asked as Wade’s eyes widened big enough to take in the horse. “Pa says he’s mine. Bet you’ve never seen one like this, Higgs.”

By this time Trent had come out of the house. Trent was the oldest and biggest, and yet somehow the good Lord hadn’t found the time or space to fill him with wisdom. As tall as he was, at nearly 6-foot-6, he was dreadfully short on temper, except when it came to animals. No one had seen such a skilled horse and cattle wrangler. Terms like “prodigy” didn’t get used often in Polk Canyon, but it was a common synonym for Trent Higgs and his ability to tame any mustang or drive any herd when he was just ten years old. Now cresting 16 years old, he dreamed of having the money to start his own ranch, but spent his days scrutinizing the ranchers and farmhands in the region who showed little respect, let alone skill, in their trade.

So naturally, Trent wasn’t impressed by the way Clark kept standing in his stirrups.

“Horse won’t like that,” he grumbled, glaring up at him.

“Horse doesn’t know what it likes,” Clark said. “Because I haven’t taught him yet. He’ll get used to it. That’s the nice thing about being able to afford a new horse — he can be anything I want him to be, not some ratty old hand-me-down.”

Trent must have decided arguing with someone two years younger and likely smarter wasn’t worth his time, because he turned back toward the barn. But Clark wasn’t done yet.

“All those mangy beasts you keep on this ranch, I’m surprised you haven’t all got fleas,” he shouted. “Especially considering you’re so poor you all wear the same clothes. Tell me, Wade, you wearing your brother’s old underwear?”

Wade’s cheeks grew hot. Until now, it never occurred to him that families didn’t normally pass everything among one another. He couldn’t remember the last new shirt or pair of trousers that had come into the house, and wondered if, indeed, any had since Trent had grown to his full size.

Sensing his work was done, Clark stood in the stirrups and kicked his horse in the sides, making it rear and charge away. Wade coughed in the dust they kicked up.

“Trent?” Wade asked, voice cracking. It was that time of his adolescence. “Are we poor?”

“Yeah,” Trent shrugged. “I guess.”

Wade didn’t know why it bothered him so much now. Nothing had changed about the way they lived since that morning when he woke up under a quilt that his mother had sewn from scraps of flour sacks and old shirts. The only difference was that now someone had given it a name, “poor,” and the shame of it all came crashing down on him.

Job came limping out of the house. He was nine, and the Biblical origins of his name seemed to determine his luck. Just six months before, he had tried to climb the large tree out back and fallen, breaking one of his legs. It hadn’t healed properly — it was now shorter than the other one — and Job was still getting used to walking around on uneven legs.

“Ma says Mr. Gilligan is coming for dinner,” he said. “She says we have to wash up.”

Mr. Gilligan was from the bank in town — a friend of the family and a quiet investor in the Higgs Ranch, even when it had its rough years. Whenever he came for dinner, there was sure to be a ham at the table. The promise of sweet, salty meat made Wade’s mouth water, even as his stomach churned at the thought that the only reason his family would be eating something so valuable was because someone else had given it to them.

That night, Mr. Gilligan did arrive with a ham, as well as a bottle of whiskey. Sitting around the table, he told funny stories from the town in Polk County, joked with the boys, and played checkers with Job until Mrs. Higgs announced that supper was ready. The bottle of whiskey stayed in the kitchen, incentivizing the diners to finish their meal quicker than usual. When the plates were cleared, Mrs. Higgs rose to take them into the kitchen and retrieve two glasses, one for her husband and one for her guest.

“Mary, get yourself a glass,” Mr. Gilligan admonished when she returned. “I want both of you to be in on this toast.” She did, and when she came back Mr. Kelly lifted his drink and proclaimed “To old friends, whose bonds can never be broken by hot words or acute adversity.”

Trent had gone out back to put the horses away before the wolves came out. Job was playing checkers against himself — something he had become quite accustomed to during his recovery — in the corner. And Wade’s ear was pressed to the door. Something about the uncharacteristic gift Mr. Gilligan had brought to their home was weighing on him.

“Mary, that was one excellent meal,” he continued. “It breaks my heart that this could be my last one for a while.”

“What do you mean, Sam?”

“I mean to say that the bank is moving me on,” he confessed. “They’re concerned with the amount of train robbing going on in these parts, so they’re shutting down the Polk Canyon office and moving me out to Kodak City to open a new branch that’ll serve both areas. That area’s got a couple of marshals that’ve been keeping an eye on things. Only one robbery in the last two years, actually.”

Wade new his father was too proud to ask what would happen to the family with out Sam Gilligan’s monthly dinners, but not tonight.

“That’s the end of the money, isn’t it?” John Higgs said.

“I’m afraid that with the new branch, the bank’s going to be keeping a closer eye on my expenses.” Sam shrugged. “I know I wasn’t giving you much, but it was still more than I care to try to slip under their noses. I’m not saying this is the absolute end — just an intermission.”

“Winter’s almost here,” Wade’s mother said wearily. “What are we supposed to do for food?”

“I’ll send some goods down,” Mr. Gilligan said, his voice fading away behind the pumping of blood inside Wade’s ears. No money from the bank meant no food. No food meant they’d starve. If there was ever a time to try whiskey, now was it, he reasoned, and he took a full swig from the bottle.

It burned so bad his eyes watered, but he liked it. He liked the distraction the pain gave him from the even more searing reality that his family might not survive a winter without crawling to people like Clark Roberson’s family for help. Once it subsided, he took another swig. Then another.

By the time Mary Higgs went back into the house, her son had finished half the bottle and was sitting under the worktable, hiccuping. She eyed the remaining whiskey, understood immediately what had happened, and led him across the room to his bed tucked under the stairs to the upstairs loft. Wade’s mouth was too numb to tell her he was sorry.

The next morning, he picked up the newspaper that Mr. Gilligan had used to wrap the ham. Despite the haze of meat grease and a hangover, Wade made out the words of an article about a train that had been robbed by a small group of bandits just outside Fort Jerusalem and remembered what their so-called family friend had said about Kodak City being relatively safe from such nefarious activities.

And that’s when he decided he would change that.

He saw Mr. Gilligan one more time, twenty years later. He’d lost count of how many trains he’d robbed by then, but this was the first one he’d stopped on its way to Kodak City in which a bank employee was charged with sitting with the safe in the front. In this case, it was the man who had abandoned the Higgs family before the longest winter in history — who had sent a single box of goods before disappearing from their lives entirely. He hadn’t even shown up to bury his old friends John and Mary Higgs when they died just before spring broke that year.

Struggling under the weight of age and guilt, Mr. Gilligan’s slow hands and old gun were no match for Cousin Elton and The Squirrel, who subdued him easily. When Wade opened the safe, he emptied it into his bag and made sure to take the bottle of whiskey from Mr. Gilligan’s own satchel bag.

“Here’s to friends,” he said, uncorking it with his teeth and spitting the stopper into Mr. Gilligan’s lap. “Whose bonds can never be broken by hot words or acute adversity.”

Wade Higgs’ theme is “Old Number Seven” by The Devil Makes Three:

Excerpt: A stop at Sy’s dad’s place

Dad’s eyes look Raff up and down before nodding at him to sit on the couch. Behind the brown irises I can see him rereading his memories of the texts I sent him — both those written as I beamed in the back of a taxi after our dates, and those sloppily typed while crying over how this man broke my heart — and he’s trying to piece together exactly why I’ve brought him home for dinner.

“Should I be nice?” He asks me.

“Yeah, you can be nice,” I say, taking my usual seat in the overstuffed armchair that gives both him and Mom back pain.

“OK, then,” Dad says tepidly. “You’ve had a long day on the road. How does a drink sound?” 

“I’ll take the darkest beer you have in the fridge,” I say.

“Chewable brew for Sy,” Dad says, “And how about you, Raff? I’ve got beer, cider, wine, whiskey — actually, I just got this new 12-year scotch—“

“Not that nice, Dad,” I say.

“Beers all around, got it,” Dad nods, bending down into the small fridge hidden inside one of the entertainment center cabinets. If I had my way, it would be lukewarm tap water for the non-Harris in the room, but Dad’s kinder than me.

~

“I’m heading to bed,” I say. “Thanks for having us, Dad.” I give him a hug and make my way to the door, expecting Raff to rise and follow, presumably give Dad one of those hearty, endearing handshakes. 

But he doesn’t move.

“You going to bed, too, Raff?” I ask. It’s hard seeking clarity on this, as we’re not even staying on the same floor of the house.

“Yeah, in a minute.”

“We have another long drive tomorrow,” I say.

“I know. Don’t worry.” He smiles one of those disarming smirks that makes me do nothing but worry. “I just want to talk to Mr. Harris a bit longer.”

I shrug and walk out of the room, closing the French doors behind me and heading upstairs.

When I was 15 and got my first potion book from Mom, I concocted an amplifying polish that I then applied to the doorframe of those very same French doors, which allowed me to hear whatever was going on inside all the way up in my room, where I kept the jar containing the other half of the polish. Once the doors shut behind me, I race up the stairs to the back of my old closet where, embedded in a box of magazine clippings meant for some decoupage project that never got finished, I find the polish and dipped an ear close to the contents.

“—but I didn’t mean to hurt her,” Raff is saying. “I need you to hear that, because I think you might be the only one who could possibly believe it.”

“Why, because I also fell in love with a witch?” Dad asks calmly, understandingly. The way he’d listen to my excuses about failing a math test because Jason Werth was trying to copy me and got us both in trouble.

“How did you know you were actually in love with her and not under some kind of hex or something?” Raff blurts out. 

“I believe it’s a little thing called trust,” Dad says. “And faith. It seems you need a little of both.”

“Raff, I am very happy with my wife. We’ve been in love with each other for three decades. We have a beautiful, smart daughter. I have never tasted anything weird in my food or felt any strange pricks in my sleep — not that I ever expected to.

“I’m not saying that you and my daughter are meant to be and your suspicions and paranoia have deprived you of true happiness. In fact, I believe she could be a lot happier with someone who has more faith in her integrity as a person. But take this advice from one grisled old man to a young one: Stop thinking you’re such hot shit that a woman like Sy would need use an ounce of her power to bewitch you, let alone elect to.”

Raff mumbled a “Yes, sir,” thanked Dad for the hospitality, and the French doors creaked open as he left the room and his footsteps faded in the direction of the first floor guest room. 

I put the lid back on the jar and hid it away in the box again. As I stepped out of my room and into the hallway to wash up before bed, Dad came up the stairs. He passed me without a word — just a wink.

The writer on the eve of her 28th birthday

Congratulate me, folks. Barring any freak accidents in the next 12 hours, I’ve survived the 27 Club.

Years ago I wrote an angsty short story from the perspective of a singer on the night before her 28th birthday. She grapples with death, trying to decide what would be more beneficial to her celebrity: living another day or dying just in time to join the 27 Club, the group of talented musicians who all died at that age. That story’s not posted on this site, as it was written by a sheltered 20-year-old in the thick of mourning Amy Winehouse.

I was never at risk of joining the 27 Club — apart from the occasional boozie night out and ill-advised habit of jaywalking, I rarely do anything to put my life in jeopardy, and I’m one of the very fortunate ones who has never desired let alone contemplated ending their own life. I also have a no-food-in-bed policy, which rules out taking the Mamma Cass route.

(For those who don’t get the joke, the Mamas and the Papas singer was found dead with a half-eaten ham sandwich on the bedside table, or so legend has it. Also she was 32, not 27.)

But 27 meant something more to me. Last year I announced it was my “golden age,” as I was born on the 27th and my lucky number has unoriginally but consistently been 27. It was going to be the year of publishing and handstands, style evolutions and more cooking.

Now today I’m finding myself taking inventory. Omaha is still “in sub” with publishers via my agent, and I’m not as far along in Nobody’s Hero as I hoped to be by now. I still can’t do a handstand, though my crow pose is fly (heh). My hair grew out, I hated it, and I cut it back to the pixie I had throughout my early 20s. I bought Chrissy Teigen’s cookbook and made exactly two recipes from it.

But then I think of what did happen. I did have a job change that plunged me into a new world of strategic communications during a turbulent time in our company’s history. I fell even harder for the Man with Time On His Arm. I spent 10 days in London, two of which I spent touring on my own and discovering not only the city but also myself. I bought my first pair of Vans.

So maybe the biggest lesson of 27 was to have goals, but be OK setting them aside to let other opportunities take center-stage. As John Lennon sang, “Life is what happens when you make other plans.”

Which is why I’ve decided to let the big things happen as they will and focus on a couple little, attainable goals for 28:

  1. Watch more documentaries, especially the kind that make me cry. I long for the same hopeful weeping I experienced during just the trailer for Knock Down the House.
  2. Get into Bruce Springsteen’s music. Like, wrapped in an American flag bandana, into it. Right now my phone has only “Hungry Heart” and “Pink Cadillac,” and I’m a disgrace to my generation and the one before it.
  3. Start being OK with mixing metallics in my jewelry choices.
  4. Admit publicly that I like Imagine Dragons and always have, from when they dropped “Radioactive” and played in our college street for free, to now when they make anthems for sports commercials. There. I did it. Check.
  5. Accept the fact that I will never watch every episode of 30 Rock, Friends, or How I Met Your Mother because there’s too many of them and I’m particular about my sitcoms.

In a year I’ll have to see just how many of these I achieved. Now I have to go learn all the words to “Born to Run.”

Nightmare No. 8952: Hurricane

Last night I dreamt that I was in some kind of complex — it reminded me of the split-level Des Moines house my cousin, her husband, and my two second cousins lived in when I was about nine or ten. We visited a handful of times, and what I remember most about it was how even though there were few windows in the basement, it still felt bright because of how many blank white walls there were.

Maybe that’s not how it really was, but that’s how I remember it. White blank walls, white berber carpet that stuck to calices that formed on our heels from playing outside in our bare feet.

I wasn’t in their house, but I was in a house like it. It was bigger, one level. Lots of different rooms and empty desks. There were a number of faceless people — not horror-movie faceless, just unknown — rushing around, leaning mattresses up agains the few windows set within the blank, white walls as the wind and rain picked up outside.

We were all about to die, and we all knew it. 

As the rest of the dream cast yelled orders at each other and quaked at the creaks and moans the house was making in the hurricane winds, I had one objective: Get my phone to work so I could call my parents. But I couldn’t get my phone to work. I’d plug it in to get it to power up, and it wouldn’t have a signal. I’d unplug it and move around the house, among the hustling mattess-movers, and it would lose juice and go black. At one point, I thought my phone was working and yelled: “Mom, Dad, we’re not going to live through this. I love you” only to find that it had dropped the call moments after connecting.

All the while, walls started collapsing in as people around me ducked under the empty desks and mattresses to take cover from the storm. And I knew I wasn’t going to be able to say goodbye to two of the most important people in my life.

I’ve never felt dread like that, both during and after. I’ve had my share of terrifying nightmares and stress dreams, but not in recent memory have I had one that made me wake up feeling not scared, but doomed. I was sleeping on my couch last night because of house guests, and I woke up shaking, my fingers clawing through the crocheted loops of my blanket. Despite the clock reading 4 a.m., I wanted to text my mom, just in case.

Never will I assume that having that nightmare last night counts as understanding the fear, sadness and hopelessness that fills people actually facing these certain-death situations without any chance to say goodbye — mass shootings being (despicably) the first example that comes to mind. If this is how my body and mind reacts to something in my subconscious as I sleep, I can’t imagine what it must be like to be wide awake and facing the very real threat of leaving life and loved ones behind.

Dispatch from London 1: What Plots Await at the Tower of London

Today I toured the Tower of London via Walks, a company that I used when I was in Rome last summer to see the Vatican in all its claustrophic glory. Our guide, Richard, was fantastic at giving us the highlights and lacing humor and factoid into the big picture of how this complex — a village, rather than a tower — served its purpose over centuries as a fortress, palace, prison and epicenter of drama for the royal families of England. 

Maybe writers should try their hands at being walking tour guides. I know a number who could learn a thing or two from Richard.

Anyway, there were so many little details that could lead to amazing stories. I found myself wishing I could go back and major in history along with journalism so I’d feel qualified to write some of these potential topics:

  • “Cromwell’s Mistake:” There’s a conspiracy that when the original Crown Jewels were destroyed by Oliver Cromwell after he overthrew the throne, they weren’t totally burned. So there could be some remnants of the original Crown Jewels floating around out there, but A) you’ll never be able to prove it and B) If you could, you wouldn’t be able to do anything public with them without incuring the wrath of the current royal family. So what happens if someone discovers that the family heirloom is actually centuries old and escaped Cromwell’s purge?
  • “The Whipping Boy:” The term “whipping boy” comes from Henry VIII’s rule. When his only son, the sickly and weak Edward, misbehaved, they wouldn’t punish him like they did other kids — with the whip. Instead, they’d whip one of his friends, the “whipping boy,” and he’d have to watch. Imagine a two-sided story of Edward and his friend, the “whipping boy,” as their friendship is tested by this situation. Of course, Edward died at age 14 after serving only two years as king. I’d like to think this story ends with his coronation.
  • “Two Princes:” When one of the many Richards took the thrown, he was actually usurping it from his nephew, the rightful king, and his nephew’s brother, the rightful second heir. He promised the young boys he’d just lead until they were old enough, and in the meantime they could stay at the Tower of London and learn to fight and joust. The day he was coronated, the boys disappeared, never to be seen again. Their presumable bodies were found buried in an archway under the tower years and years later. I guess if they did DNA testing, they’d be able to confirm that the bodies are indeed theirs, but Queen Elizabeth II won’t let that happen. After all, if they’re confirmed to be the two sons, that puts the legitimacy of the current royal family in jeopardy. I’d love to do a “what if” piece on the rogue anthropologist who submits the DNA for testing anyway.
  • “Jane:” When Henry VIII’s heir was close to dying, one of the court’s highest advisors sought a way to insert his own family into the royal lineup by having his son marry Jane Grey, the most likely (in his mind) to succeed Edward. But what he didn’t count on was Mary, Henry VIII’s firstborn, to show up with an army supporting her claim to the throne. But there she was, and so Lord Guildford Dudley and his wife, Lady Jane Grey, were executed as usurpers. Guildford was executed in the town where everyone could watch, but not until after he had to watch Jane die in the middle of the Tower of London’s courtyard (the same spot where two of Henry VIII’s wives met their end — there’s a lovely monument there now). Guildford apparently scratched “Jane” into the window sill of his quarters, and it’s still their today. Just retelling the story from his perspective would be interesting.

Of course, people probably have already told these stories. I just ordered Lacey Baldwin Smith’s book, English HistoryMad Brief, Irreverant and Pleasurable. If you have a better suggestion, please share it in the comments. I picked Smith’s book because my mom grew up near him and has mentioned him when talking about her childhood. 

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London calling: Another, but far different, airport scene

I’m sitting in the American Airlines Flagship Lounge at O’Hare and it’s a definite departure from the last time I blogged at Chicago’s international air hub. No corned beef and red wine for $20 this time. Now it’s free self-serve champagne (and harder, if you want); a buffet of free sushi, salads, pork loin, you name it; and a PA that announces the next boarding flight when you need to hear it.

What hasn’t changed? The people watching is still spectacular. 

A group of legging-clad women just left after only putting their phones down to doulbe-fist champagne and coconut water. One of them said something about “If she really wants to be a rich-bitch, sure,” and I couldn’t help but think how money can’t buy self-awareness.

An older couple took their spot and tried to decypher their kid’s text mesage to them warning them not to eat too much of the sushi in the buffet. I think the “LOL” threw them off.

And now I’m anxiously awaiting the announcement that my flight to London is boarding so I can get my A1 seat in business class. I sold my soul to corporate almost four years ago, and today I don’t particularly regret it.

But a note: While I’m in London, I’m going to try my hardest to post once a day, either a “scene of the write” or a part of the book I’m working on in between running a senior leadership meeting, touring one of our company’s factories, and trying not to get lost on the Bakerloo line. Thought what could be better than hearing Helen Mirren announce that you’re on a subway line called “Bakerloo?”