Saturday, January 16, 2021

Tuesday, November 17, 2020

On Writing - my third write-in with the Smithsonian National Portrait Gallery - Kurt Cobain

Since there are permission restrictions on the portrait, here's the LINK with a blurb.  Please take a moment to study it, look into Kurt Cobain's eyes and read its history. It was taken in 1993, a few months prior to Kurt Cobain's death.

As the last time, attendees were given a portrait with background story and twenty minutes to write. This time, we were restricted in POV from either Cobain, the photographer Mark Seliger, or from a fan. I chose to write from the photographer's point of view.

I wanted this photograph to be the first in a series, to chart Cobain's path forward into the future. I wish it wasn't so near to the end of his road. I wonder sometimes if I'd had any training in psychology, If I would have seen someone else behind his eyes, someone calling out for help. If that call had been evident, I  might have asked him to hang around longer while I made some calls. 

I 'd heard about Cobain's career of course, and Nirvana's singular rise drew me magnetically to him. I had to get his portrait captured. It's always an honor when the people I want to photograph say 'yes'. There's an intersection where we affirm each other's star status and elevate it higher than even we can reach.

Now that I've captured Kurt's moment of vulnerability forever, it lives on like Nirvana's music.

It's 2020 now -- 30 years after their breakout hit -- and he'll never be remembered as old or sickly or frail or vulnerable or past his prime. He became the teen spirit.

As for Cobain's pain, there are so many layers of irony, aren't there?

His physical pain could be treated, if only symptomatically, and painkillers are misnomers in the end. They don't ever kill the pain once and for all. They only make the pain hide -- sort of whack-a-mole style. Painkillers can, however, kill the man, but that's not what did Kurt in. It was the other pain, the invisible pain that only he could see in his mind and came out in his guitar. That kind of pain can be heard and felt by patients experiencing the same demon.

In that shared experience, the fan thinks Cobain has it all worked out -- just transmute the pain into music and voila, it's therapy enough to conquer another day.

No one held more sway over Cobain than that demon though. Talked him into a dark place and lied about how to get out.

If it was all there in that photograph, I had no way of knowing how to decipher the layers.

Thursday, November 12, 2020

On writing - What's done and what comes next

 I'm in the middle of a few exciting projects, not least of which is This Darkness is Mine. It's kind of funny in an ironic way how far from the end I was when I typed "The End".

Even typing "The End" was kinda weird. I read through the manuscript again and found things to change, amend, edit, rewrite, etc. Then came the beta readers segment of the journey. Even though writers are anxious for feedback, I gave my readers a unique two-month timetable, and it worked out smashingly. The advice I'd been given from more seasoned writers was don't make every single change recommended by every single beta reader. Sure. I didn't follow that advice. In retrospect, I think it's because I chose my beta readers so carefully. They all saw different things in different places - except for one stretch in the middle that made all of them yawn.

That was July and August of 2019. Still not officially "the end"! What hubris it takes for a writer to type that phrase so prematurely! Or naïvete.

I've written elsewhere on more details of the journey, so I'll skip to present day. My dream literary agent Kelly at Serendipity Literary has (at last) marked my manuscript CLEAN. While that sounds like she has the final say, every change had to be approved by me. Mainly, I had to answer every question that potential readers - including editors - might have. Either that meant defending the words on the page, or clarifying, or chopping what was indefensible. I may have mentioned before in another post that Kelly's initial edit letter had no changes to This Darkness is Mine until page 317, which to me meant 316 very strong pages, which I took as a testament to my talent and skill, which I couldn't claim sole credit for. There's a reason why the acknowledgements page(s) in novels go on and on.

Ironic too that writing seems like such a solitary exercise when, in truth, perhaps a dozen or more people are involved. It's a collaboration in isolation though. Readers can't read with lots of distractions going on any more than writers can write in a roomful of activity. We need to tune out the world when it comes to the word. Each person who touches the manuscript does so in sequence, not in committee.

Now that This Darkness is Mine is CLEAN, she will begin her querying, though it's called subbing, which I guess means submitting. It's almost identical to the writers' process of querying and many of the same resources are utilized: #MSWL, Twitter feed, querytracker, Publishers Marketplace.

Agents go through the same hell, just on a different level! 👀👿

This process may be quick or long. There's no knowing beforehand, so I have no other news to report on that front.

On another front, Mack's Writers Rescue LLC is being filed, and a brand spanking new author website will launch, slated for January 1, 2021

Pages will be devoted to:

  • Milo the cat
  • Blog
  • Excerpts, blurbs and snippets from This Darkness is Mine
  • Poetry and short stories
  • Interviews of women's fiction authors and mental health advocates*
  • About me and testimonials
  • Editing and fiction manuscript critique services (the rescue services 👮)
* If you write women's fiction (especially if you're a BIPOC author) with upcoming/published work, or a mental health advocate and would like to be interviewed, please email me mackenzielittledalewrites at gmail dot com.

Readers will be able to get a free short story when they sign up to an email list to stay in touch and stay abreast of This Darkness is Mine as I continue on toward getting published.

I even bought a LivingSocial for portraits, and I'll be gettin' my hair did so I'll look my best for the website.

On yet another front, I'm half way completed with the Developmental Editor certification from UCLA, so I'm pretty stoked about that. Up front, I have a preference for women's fiction, suspense thrillers, and some categories of self-help and nonfiction. I can be persuaded to read fantasy and your first chapter has to win me over for sci-fi. I won't touch horror, erotica, or romance.

The final front is still hush hush until I get the go ahead to make the announcement, but it'll be the biggest event I've ever pulled off, and it'll be HUGE.

I'm always happy to read comments 🠟

Be well, stay safe, and have a magical day!

Tuesday, October 27, 2020

On Writing - My first write in with the Smithsonian Institution National Portrait Gallery

 October 27

I participated in a virtual write-in through the National Portrait Gallery, during which a portrait with a little background story were used as writing prompts. We were allotted 20 minutes to write.

This was the portrait (Andrew Carnegie

This is what I wrote:

"I've rendered your cheeks  ever so slightly rosier than they really are, Mr. Carnegie," she said, cleaning the last of her paintbrushes with turpentine. "I hope you don't mind."

Andrew stared at the portrait of himself. He let out a murmur of a grunt as he noticed the globe. 

"I did that so people can see your health and always remember you as such. For posterity."

"I see," said Andrew. "There's no hint of a train or commerce, though."

"Ah, but yes," said the artist, pointing the brush at the image of the scroll. "This here is your first certificate of stock. The one that began building your way out of poverty."

Andrew hinted a smile.

"Does that mean it pleases you?" asked the artist. 

He didn't want to let on whether it did or didn't. "Who would know what that is unless you or I tell them?"

"It's a secret, sir." The artist put her oil paints away and began tucking her easel into a case. "As for the train, no one will ever forget to associate the name Carnegie with steel. The world is at your feet. See the globe there?"

Carnegie tapped his foot and nodded. "It's mostly in darkness."

"That's the truth of the real world. If the masses follow your lead, the light will be theirs, enlightenment if you will."

Andrew frowned. He thought perhaps the artist was overdoing it in hopes of fetching a higher price, but he had settled on a price and it was strictly for the commission, not for his ego's gratification. He bent over to inspect the details of the portrait. "My hands seem a bit small, no?"

The artist gasped and then shrugged with a sly smile, as though she'd just thought of a plausible why. "Large hands belong only to greedy men, sir. I rendered your hands thusly to represent you take only what you have justly earned and no more."

Carnegie smiled, pulling a cigar from his breast pocket. "Well done. I must admit I like that, I like it because it's true." He pursed his lips. "You left out my dog."

The artist rubbed at her lapel. "Another portrait with less subtle meaning, perhaps? A family portrait and I'll be happy to include your dog."

Andrew started at the artist's handiwork. The painting isn't bad. Rosy cheeks, enlightenment, the beginnings of wealth creation -- these were all important to him after all. Could he credibly claim to be modest. He wanted to believe so.

Monday, October 26, 2020

Short Story (honorable mention) Second Chance at Heaven

by Mackenzie Littledale

Honorable Mention in the 2020 Texas Observer Short Story Contest
Judge: Bryan Washington

Charlotte lingered in bed, feeling as though she were reborn into this moment. She stroked her lover’s mahogany back while she took in the firm curves of his body. His sweat-drenched skin contrasted against the shimmering white silk of his pajamas and her pale caramel complexion. She gazed at the keloid scars on his left cheek, still wondering how this man-whore had managed to make her feel as fearless as a goddess. 

They’d met at the March on Washington the week prior. After listening to impassioned speeches, he’d invited her to a party at his house the following night. The party was extravagant and crowded with people as varied as the entire world. Political crusaders, beatniks, and revelers all vied for his attention, but he only made time for the half-dressed ladies. Charlotte sat off in a corner observing the bustle, wondering why he’d invited her to witness him acting badly. She’d turned her head to sip her drink and when she looked back, he’d disappeared with a woman on each arm.

But last night, when they crossed paths at a bookstore, a spark lit between them. He apologized so contritely for not spending more time with her at his party, she invited him to her hotel room.

Now, she remembered she was on vacation and in a matter of minutes, this man with the sexual prowess of a cat in the wild would be of no consequence.

Their lovemaking had been physically satisfactory, but its spiritual quality left her breathless. “Do you trust me?” he’d asked before taking her to climax. Climaxing sent her soul into a freefall dive off a cliff from a heavenly rainforest to a soft landing on earth below. She toyed with the nonsense idea that he was her spiritual guide and his sex thrust her into this incarnation.

She showered leisurely while he remained sleeping in bed. She savored the steam and coconut scent of her bath gel. She then sat at the vanity in the bathroom to braid her curly hair into a distinctive African style and apply makeup. Once dressed in a batik shirt and jeans, she paused at the door.

He sat up disoriented in bed, rubbing the light out of his eyes.

“You’re free to stay or go,” she said to her anonymous lover, and stepped outside into the late morning light. The last few months of community organizing for civil rights had left her spent. This night allowed her to let off weeks’ worth of frustration.

Her room was on the third floor of a pale, slate grey hotel that had been recently desegregated. She’d stayed at this hotel before, but this was her first time being allowed to stay in this section. The rooms for colored only used to overlook the rear parking lot and Dumpsters. Despite her frustrations at community organizing, she still rode the spirit of the words of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and felt too confident to wonder if the two races could peaceably assemble. Desegregation could flourish spectacularly or fail. Time would tell. It would’t be known overnight. Charlotte hadn’t taken more than two steps from her room toward the elevator, when an agitated voice called out.

“Was all that racket you?” a man asked from behind her.

“Me?” asked Charlotte, turning to face him. “When?”

“All last night and all this morning! My family couldn’t sleep because of the noise,” said the paunchy, red-headed man wearing touristy clothing and a navy windbreaker. He wagged his finger inches from her face.

Charlotte backed up. “Hey mister, get your finger out of my face.”

The man’s bloodshot eyes bulged, but before she could respond, he spun on his heels and marched down a catwalk to double glass doors and disappeared inside.

Charlotte continued to the elevator, which took its time arriving, so people engaged each other in conversation. Charlotte made a few jokes when the red-headed man with his family in tow thundered back out.

“We spoke to the manager and demanded that they move you to another room away from decent people. You and all your sex noises!” he said, baring teeth at Charlotte.

“Mister, are you serious?” Charlotte counted five red-headed children. “You must know sex, look how many kids you have! Haven’t you ever spent the night at your parents’ house and gotten…” she tilted her head toward him and raised her eyebrows… “You know, caught up in the heat of the moment.”

One of his boys, about seven years old said, “Negroes are maggots, right Dad?”

Charlotte jumped back and clutched her chest. A gasp swept through the clusters of people, including three strapping Black men. The Black men pushed their way through the people to the red-headed man.

The youngest-looking of the Black men pulled the redhead aside and pushed him against a wall. “Who do you mean by maggots?” he demanded, his complexion like caramel macchiato. Charlotte saw a layered mask of disbelief, pain, and rage on the young man’s face. He shook his head and removed the hood of his blue sweatshirt. He grabbed the redheaded man by his lapel and slowly pulled and pushed him, fighting himself with a decision to brawl or walk away.

“Carl!” shouted the redheaded man’s wife, her voice laced with urgency. Her face turned pale with terror as she shielded the two smallest kids’ eyes.

“Don’t take that shit, brother!” said someone in the crowd.

“Yeah!” shouted multiple voices. “Teach him some respect!”

“Respect!” yelled more voices.

Charlotte looked from side to side as the anger intensified quickly, surrounding her, infecting her, a battle between warriors and pacifists. Her heart rate sped up, and her mind scattered, no time to decide what to do.

“Maggots! Who the hell are you calling maggots?” The man in the blue sweatshirt still hadn’t let go of Carl’s lapel.

Charlotte’s fear gained traction as the man in the hooded sweatshirt drew back his right fist. Electric thrill coursed through her body, clenched her gut, and heightened her senses. Part of her wanted Carl to get his ass whooped, but she looked at the seven year-old pulling on his mother’s clothing, begging her to do something.

Walk away, let level heads prevail, Charlotte thought. She saw herself talking calmly to the man in the sweatshirt with his fist still poised like a bird of prey against the sky. She’d say something wise and go about her business of getting coffee and breakfast. But she also imagined Carl beaten to a bloody pulp. Emergency responders, perhaps a morgue, a funeral, his children’s wails, and his wife despondent, her hands full.

A voice wrapped around her brain that the child would continue to the end of his life with guilt if his father took a beating now. Carl’s wife would blame the child for speaking without discretion and never look at him the same. All five children would grow up believing Black people were savage animals or maggots. The Black men would spend the rest of their lives in fear of lynch mobs or in prison without parole.

Charlotte took in a deep breath and surrendered to a courage rising up inside her that she didn’t know was there. She stepped up to the man’s side. “No, don’t do it,” she said. “If you beat him up, you’ll go to Hell, and you know it.”

“Mind your business, lady,” said the man.

“We’re all here in this together,” said Charlotte. “You have a right to be agitated and angry, but fighting doesn’t solve any problems. You know that’s true, right?”

“Step aside, lady, or you’re going down with him.”

“You don’t mean that. What’s your name?”

The man paused, losing conviction.

Charlotte took hold of his raised arm. “What’s your name?”

He looked at her bewildered. “Tommy.”

Charlotte nodded. “Tommy, that’s a fine name for a fine young man with a bright future ahead of him. Tommy, If you hit that man in front of his kids, then those kids will believe Black men are maggots, animals without self control.” She felt his muscles soften and contract, soften and contract. “We are not maggots. We have self control. We have Martin Luther King.” She saw that resonate in his eyes, and for no reason guessed he was a Southern Baptist.

She continued. “We have the hope of heaven. We have Jesus.” Charlotte tugged his arm down, taking his hand. “We are not animals. This is a chance to show the next generation of white children that Martin Luther King’s dream is their dream, too.” She spoke without knowing where the words came from. “Tap into your humanity, into your dignity. You hit that man and he’ll believe that treating us hatefully is right. We have to teach his kids that we are fully human. Hatred has no home in the hearts of Children of God. Fighting ugliness with pain just makes the ugliness grow and multiply.”

Charlotte looked at the seven year old. A powerful sense of déjà vu came over her. She’d been in this situation before and gotten it all wrong. Her mouth went dry, imagining the boy’s father beaten, limp, and bloody. She had some sort of moral imperative, or did she? In an instant she accepted that whether or not she did, she’d continue speaking with the power of God coming through her. She couldn’t let Carl get his ass whooped with his family as witnesses. “We’re not maggots, kid. Your father is wrong about who we are.”

The seven year-old looked from her to his mother, confused and afraid. The boy trembled and tugged on his mother’s arm. “Mom? Mom do something.”

His mother remained silent and frozen. A circle grew in the child’s crotch and spread. He was wetting his pants. His shoulders hitched up and down, a halting sound fighting its way up but getting stuck in this throat until he couldn’t hold back from crying. His mother tugged him closer, and the older kids formed a U around her back.

Charlotte’s hand held Tommy so tensely, it began numbing, but she wouldn’t let go. His muscles eased, but started trembling. He shook his head, his expression relenting from rage to confusion to surrender to nodding.

“Lady, who are you?” Tommy asked, his voice unsteady.

For a split second, Charlotte wasn’t sure. She felt an angelic uprising: the seven year-old’s guilt expelled into the air and dissipated. The heated energy of the crowd cooled. The other two Black men’s faces shed rage and softened, their chests heaving.

She sighed in relief; she’d spared the child a lifetime of agonizing over sparking a potentially fatal fight. Despite bringing up ‘Jesus’ earlier, she had faith in Eastern mystics and reincarnation. That déjà vu feeling resolved itself. She was convinced she had been through this before. Carl, his wife, the brood of children, and the swelling crowd all felt powerfully familiar. But it hadn’t ended well. The escalation had continued before until it ran away from all semblance of peace. This time, she got it right. She didn’t have to repeat this lesson and could go forward to a new challenge.

She eyes regained focus and she looked at Tommy. “My name is Charlotte. You need to move along with your head held high. Take your friends with you. Hold on to Dr. King’s dream. Make it real, every single day in your own life.”

Out of the corner of her eyes, she caught a glimpse of her lover exiting her hotel room. She looked squarely at him. She swore he winked and gave her a thumbs up before vanishing into the sky, releasing a light rain that Charlotte would tell everyone sparkled like glitter because it was borne of peace.

The 2020 contest finalists ===> HERE

The Texas Observer 2020 Book Festival and winner announcements LIT CRAWL Saturday Nov 14 8:30pm (central time?)

Saturday, October 10, 2020

World Mental Health Day 2020

 What does mental health look like to a person who has #bipolar? For myself, it means my everyday is as neurotypical as possible, and that's only a reality when I stick with my medication. 

But what does mental health look like for anyone - with or without a mental illness challenge - during a prolonged pandemic? royalty-free image

I couldn't adequately answer the question, but Google's home page had a link to a gorgeous montage, and I'll share it here ==> The whole human population needs to function with coronavirus in the backdrop. It's a beautiful and concise clip. It made me tear up because we all so desperately need each other but we're torn apart along illogical racial and political fault lines.

For specific care, especially coping with profound grief, YouTube suggested Amy Morin, LCSW and her TED-x Talk from Ocala, Florida. Imagine being 23 years old, graduating from graduate school, getting a dream job, getting married, and buying a house with a bright, shiny future ahead of you, only to lose your mother. Morin describes mental resilience by replacing unhealthy mental habits with healthier habits. Worth a listen. ==>

As for myself, my world has been closing in on me in certain ways, and my outlets have been writing, weekly family Zooms, and the occasional visit in the park with a friend. I've attached a significant portion of my identity with my work, and being furloughed going on seven months has taken a toll. Who am I without gainful employment?

Who am I indeed.

I'm still a friend and a cat mommy, a sister, a writer with a story. I'm still here. I'm still facing a plethora of enormous uncertainty, which doesn't make me special. It makes me connected, because we're all in this together despite the six feet between us.

And later today, I'll be video chatting with my dear friends, and I look forward to seeing them, hearing their voices, seeing their faces, laughing until our guts burst, and leaning on each other.

READERS, follow my Facebook author page ==>

WRITERS, follow me on Twitter ==> @mackenzielitt13

Is there an act of #SelfCare you can fit into your day today? In addition to the video chat with my friends, I'm going to give myself a hydration facial, avoid soda, and spend time with my brother and mom.

Be well, stay safe and have a magical day!


Sunday, October 4, 2020

About me - interviews and miscellany

12/18/2018 Guest post (Anger vs. Negativity) on The Bipolar Battle website

01/2019 First published article (Self-aware Movement through Somatic Bodywork) Conscious Life Journal

07/17/2019 AskWin Podcast interview

11/2019 Diffusing the Tension blog Interview/Q&A

07/12/2020 Wendi Blum Weiss interview Growing Your Twitter Account from zero to 14,000

07/31/2020 Winning short story (Freedom 500) Gestalt Media July contest

09/17/2020 Gestalt Media Creative Community interview My Creative Process

09/30/2020 Winning short story (It was an Accident) Gestalt Media September contest

Saturday, September 19, 2020

Black Lives Matter. That Includes Me.

 It's both aggravating and comforting that Black Lives Matter gets followed up with All Lives Matter.

On one hand, it's comforting because the person telling me is an ally and says it out of allyship, that he or she always believed my life matters, always included minorities as equals.

On the other hand, it's aggravating when it comes from a person who insinuates that I have no reason or right to single out Black lives as mattering. It's not that the BLM movement is singling out Black lives to elevate them ABOVE all others. To the contrary, we want to be elevated to EQUALITY. Why does this argument still have to be pointed out? Wtf?

Anyone whose intent is to shut me up and "put me in my place" by saying All Lives Matter can go fuck themselves.

Blue Lives Matter. Wow. There's no such thing as a Blue Life unless you're referencing a fucking Smurf. The uniform is blue. It's an occupation that comes with occupational hazards. It comes with a badge that confers authority to use deadly force. It's almost unquestioned. The blue uniform can be removed at the end of a shift. The badge can be misused and the power behind it can be abused. At what point in the day -- or in my life for that matter -- can I slink out of my skin?

That's a long introduction to see if readers have the stomach to read more. If you've stuck it out this long and aren't squeamish...

You want to know who I think I am
As if you have any business asking
But I’ll tell you
By my way of thinking, I belong here
I descend from kings and queens
Earth and bone
Silver and gold
Their blood still flowing strong in my veins
So I speak of we
When I say me

To read the rest of my poem, purchase the journal. Pages 22-23...

The Young Writers Initiative launched The Black Lives Matter Project with a literary journal. 

My poem You Want to Know Who I Think I Am is included on Pages 22-23, as well as my friend Phebe Yawson's piece Black Hope begins on Page 24.

The journal is well done and simply stunning. It's a tremendous honor to be included with such luminous talent and voices.

Be well, stay safe and have a magical day!


Wednesday, September 16, 2020

Short Story - It was an Accident

It was an Accident
Word count 2777
By Mackenzie Littledale

Something was wrong. My skin prickled and ears itched. I recognized the sounds coming from my daughter’s room and burst in just in time to see Cuties on the TV screen. Tory scrambled to turn it off, but my husband and I had already seen the film the night before. I saw enough.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing watching Netflix without permission?” I demanded. “Mature adult means not for you.”

“Mom!” Tory protested.

“Don’t ‘Mom’ me.” I took the remote control with no intention of returning it anytime soon. “You couldn’t hope to understand the societal message of that film, young lady. You’re ten years old. Neither adult, nor mature.”

“That’s not fair.” My brown sugar baby girl pouted.

This back and forth continued for no good reason. She had to have the last word. Ludicrous for a child without any means of providing for herself.

“I’m gonna be a dancer in rap videos when I grow up. And I’ll never have to do what you say again.” Tory folded her arms and plopped on her bed, glaring at me.

The lit fuse reached my dynamite and exploded. “You wanna grow up to be a whore? Nobody aspires to be a hoochie mama in a rap video, or a pole dancer, or a stripper. That is not for you. You are going to maintain high grades, do your schoolwork, and eventually go to college so you can have a worthwhile future.” A wave of epithets came out of my mouth like sludge, bitter to taste and immediately regrettable. I was talking to her as if she was already a whorish junkie sleeping in the gutter with a mangy mutt beside her shopping cart.

“I hate you!” she screamed with tears and every ounce of her being.

“No television. No boys. No sleepovers for a month.” I slammed the door shut and stormed a trail of fire to my room.

I tried knitting booties for the baby growing in my belly to take my mind off the fight. Over, under, loop. The repetition normally put me in a peaceful state of mind, but the words kept coming back. We both spoke so many cruelties to each other. I had no idea she could be so shitty at ten years of age. She pushed all my buttons, and a river of acid had flowed out of my mouth. I meant all of it in the moment, but the moment after each poisoned wound was followed with the salt of and shame. I’m the adult; I’m her mother for God’s sake. Her one and only mother-- terrified of rehabilitation centers, terrified of seeing her in mug shots, terrified of pimps, but still. How could I have spoken to her that way? My profanity and fear couldn’t create or erase her future.

Needle over: revised conversation. Needle under: I wanted a do-over. Loop: I’m sorry, Tory. The endless repetitions of the needles weren’t putting my mind in a meditative state like I’d hoped. No amount of knitting could repair the past.

Knitting until my fingers cramped, I took a closer look at my handicraft. The booties were two radically different sizes. I sighed. Knitting was hard anyway. Trying to distract myself wasn’t working and my heart felt disassembled from the torrent of barbed words still taking turns in my head. I’m a lousy mother. I should flush myself like vomit or shit. Piss and vinegar. My own mother’s words came to me at precisely the most infuriating moment. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. True, and it was too late for honey.

The house phone rang. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” said my husband. “I’m getting off work in a few. Do you want me to pick up anything?”

His thoughtfulness raised my spirits a bit. “I had a fight with Tory. Do you know what our daughter was watching?”

“How could I?” he asked.

Cuties on Netflix. She said she wants to be rap video dancer when she grows up.” My blood began boiling on the fires of fear all over again, but regret tamped it down. “We’re canceling Netflix, Alphio. I’m serious.”

“How does that solve anything?”

“It just does,” I said, heat warming my face from the inside. My mind flashed forward a few beats. “I think I fucked up. I said such horrible things to her.”

“How horrible are we talking?”

I told him the filth that had poured out of my mouth.

“Eliza! You shouldn’t be getting into it with anyone while you’re pregnant, you know that.”

“No lectures, okay?” I got a good look at my reflection in the mirror over the dresser. The baby bump barely showed if I turned at the right angle. Even though Alphio was right, I didn’t want an impassioned sermon on minimizing stress during pregnancy. I’d smooth it over. Too bad I had no idea how.

“I’m thinking some ice cream might help open the lines of communication again. I’ll pick up mint chocolate chip. How does that sound?” he asked, totally the voice of reason.

I sniffled. “Ice cream sounds crazy enough to work. Maybe you should be the one to talk to her to calm things down and then I’ll come in, too. I’ll apologize, but we’re her parents. We have to guide her away from skid row.”

“That sounds like a ‘yes’,” said Alphio. “I gotta jump off now, but just stay clear of her if you can’t keep your temper in check.”

“Okay.” My shoulders drooped in concession. “Now I can hardly wait for you to get home. This is important.”

“Love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Back to knitting. But my mind wouldn’t cooperate and get into that blissful meditative state. Time was ticking too slowly and the concrete wall of tension between Tory’s bedroom and mine seemed impenetrable. I switched on the television and surfed channels. Characters kissed--switch. Comedians told jokes--one laugh, switch. Nincompoops babbled on--breeze on by. Politicians made promises of how much more integrity they had over the opposition--please, switch. Bad guys blew things up, detectives chased the bad guys. Before I knew it, I was in the foreign language channels. I just wanted the ice cream savior. The baby kicked. He must have wanted some, too.

A half hour later, Alphio called again to say something came up and he wouldn’t be able to stop for the ice cream after all.


Unable to focus on anything but the memory of sharp words between Tory and me, I tried unknitting the oversized bootie, but everything I did made it worse, which made me wonder if I’d just fuck it up further with Tory. But I was her mother; I had to try. I threw the needles and shapeless mess of yarn to the loveseat and got up. I grabbed my purse and stepped out of my bedroom. The silvery flickers of TV light shone from under Tory’s bedroom door. So she wasn’t too lazy to use the controls on the television after all. Rhianna blared into the hallway.

“Honey, I’m gonna run out for ice cream. We can talk when I get back, okay?” I called out. She couldn’t have heard me. No matter, I’d be back soon enough with a peace offering.

I pulled my blue down jacket close against the damp wind and headed to the convenience store a half mile away to get the ice cream. I could hardly wait and the baby kicked over and over. I rubbed my belly, telling him silently that we’d all get to enjoy it soon enough. Patience, little guy. I got the treasure and headed toward check out, when suddenly four other people jumped in line before I got there. My foot tapped restlessly. I could use a little patience, myself.

While waiting, I considered Tory’s points. Perhaps I could give her a bit more freedom to meet with friends. Maybe take on an extracurricular activity so long as her grades held up. But had she really meant it when she called me a monster? I had to apologize for cutting her meat like she still wore diapers, and for saying I couldn’t wait for her to go off to college. I didn’t believe she would grow into a whore, so why had I said it? The thoughts collided in my brain while the baby kicked in my belly. I needed to use a restroom, but I’d wait until I got back home to a toilet I could trust.

With the ice cream loaded in the passenger seat, I left the convenience store, heading south. I had the right of way to turn left at the next intersection, but a driver pulled out in front of me. In the blink of an eye, I realized he couldn’t clear the intersection in time, and reflexively, I jerked the wheel to the left, crashing into his hood. My head whipped forward and the brief but searing heat of the airbag cushioned the blow. My head pounded with sharp throbs and tiny white lights spun around a carousel before my eyes.

“Oh my God.” Metal crumpled like discarded paper, cracked windshield, blood. That was the other driver’s car. I couldn’t tell what damage had been done to mine. I put my car in park and got out. The sky sent down a misty rain in the disappearing light. All I could think of was my baby and Tory. If Tory came out of her room and didn’t find me, what would she think?

“Mister, are you alright?” I asked, standing by the driver’s door. His face was obscured with blood, his head lolling against the headrest.

Panic set in. He was moving, but I had no way of knowing how badly he’d been injured. Headlights came on as cars passed slowly by. They didn’t stop, as though an ocean separated us. I reached for his door handle, just when I heard a thump coming from his trunk. My eyes opened wide. Did this asshole have a dog in his trunk? That’s absurd, Eliza, I said to myself. It must be a bowling ball come loose or something. I walked to the rear of his car and heard another thump.

“Hello?” a muffled voice asked from inside. “Hello? Help me, please.”

My heart stopped and then started beating overtime against my breastbone. The voice was too familiar, too surreal.

“Help me!”



“Tory, can you breathe? How in God’s name did you get trapped in some man’s trunk?”

“Mom, please, get me out. He’s a monster!”

I ran back to the driver’s side and opened the door. His eyes opened, dazed, head still rolling. He moaned. Under any other circumstances, I would have taken pity on him and tried to help him. My eyes narrowed, slits of frosty fury. Never before had I anticipated looking at a kidnapper live in the flesh. His nostrils flared and his eyes rolled sideways, backward, sideways again.

Every nightmare a parent could ever have flashed before my eyes. I pictured Tory hurt, at his mercy, afraid for her life. No one with pure intentions puts another human in the trunk of their car. I pulled my right hand back into a fist and punched him in his cheekbone. “You animal.” My fingers throbbed as I took the keys from the ignition, went back to the trunk, and popped it open.

My daughter’s face was pale against her black hair. She was wrapped in a greasy, torn blanket that had probably been used to work on the car. “Tory!” I helped my daughter get out and we crossed the street as the rain came down more heavily.

I called 9-1-1, shaking, waiting for help to arrive. “Tory, are you hurt, did that man hurt you?”

“He put something over my head so I didn’t see much. I never saw his face. I thought I was going to die and then there was a crash. That must have been you.” Passing headlights lit her up, pale, bluish. Streaked with rain, tears and scratches. My God...

“I thought you were in your room. What are you doing out?” Future Tory waiting on line for her driver’s license passed through my mind, then her as a graduate in cap and gown, and as a bride walking down the aisle on her father’s arm toward the love of her life.

“Mom, not now, please.” She ran the back of her hand against her face, smearing a line of blood.

The force of nature took over me, a Goddess of Justice and Truth maybe. “No, you have to tell me,” I said with my voice rising, and took her by the shoulders. “I didn’t even know you weren’t safe at home.” My mind flashed images of her soaring on a swing to get the adoring attention of God, as a two year-old in footies cranky at bedtime, and an earlier infant Tory tossing her spaghetti over the edge of her highchair.

“Jonathan texted me, so I sneaked out the window to meet him at Baker Park. But when I got there, that man started talking to me. Asked me if I wanted to see the new prototype for X-box. I told him no, but he jumped out at me and put something over my head....” Her voice cracked and she threw her arms around me. “I was in the dark and it smelled like tires. I thought I was going to die. I was just waiting to be killed.”

Sirens pierced the night, louder and louder, bringing swaths of relief. I needed the police to know the victim was my daughter and not the driver. His injuries paled in comparison to the horrors he surely had in store for Tory.

The police and paramedics showed up on the scene, parked haphazardly so traffic had to get re-routed. I explained the situation and the police ran the driver’s license and registration.

“James Kane is an alias,” said the officer, returning from his cruiser. “He’s a prime suspect in a sex trafficking ring. Targets girls under the age of sixteen. You’re really lucky.”

“I am.” I turned to Tory. “I am so very lucky to have you. I didn’t mean anything I said earlier.” I tugged her closer, feeling her shiver in my arms. There was something hollow about the way she felt, like part of her was elsewhere--in that godforsaken trunk. “I will definitely press charges and testify, whatever I have to do to put that piece of shit away.”

“Mom, can we just go home?” asked Tory.

I stroked her unruly hair and looked into her dark brown eyes, so relieved she didn’t become a statistic. “We can if the police say it’s okay.” I remembered why I was out. “I have mint chocolate chip ice cream for us.”

“I don’t want any right now.”

Did I believe ice cream was appropriate at this moment? “It was silly.” My thoughts wandered back a beat to the anticipation of the ice cream, how utterly important it had seemed as a symbolic gesture. “I thought it would be a peace offering and we could talk it out.”

“We don’t need ice cream for that, Mom. I’m sorry, too. I just wanna go home.”

“I want to go home, too, honey, but we should go to the hospital first.” The ice cream was surely ruined, a thought vaporizing into nothingness as I looked at the priceless young life before me. My Tory could have wound up anywhere, maybe never been found, so I counted my blessings in seeing her alive.

On the way to the ER, Alphio’s question over what problem would be solved in canceling Netflix echoed in my mind. What would I have accomplished if we canceled Netflix? It wouldn’t have brought her back or spared her. Canceling wouldn’t have brought any relief if that monster had hurt her and gotten away with it. Granted she was too young to process the dangerous nature of Cuties. My temper put her in danger. My anger sent her through the window and into a predator’s primetime for hunting. With or without Netflix, nothing could have returned my daughter to me but savvy investigators and detectives. I’d never been so grateful for a car accident in my whole life.

WON -->


Please visit these fine nonprofits and donate as generously as you’re able to further their missions.

Organization aimed at preventing sex trafficking - Radical Empathy
Twitter: @reefcares, Website:

Organization for empowering women and girls who were the victims of sex abuse - Gwyneth Montenegro Foundation
Twitter: @ThisIsGwyneth, Website:

Saturday, September 5, 2020

Random Thought - Pride

***9/7/2020 UPDATED-EST UPDATE***

All six books on my required reading list have been purchased! The GoFundMe is more than fully funded. All extra amounts will be applied toward groceries and filing Littledale's Writers Rescue LLC. October 7 is the first day of the course and I'll be there. This is the best feeling I've had since my niece's girls were born. Thank you so very much. Your support is appreciated beyond words. Oh, my heart 💖💝


Four of the six required reading books have been generously purchased! Only two books remain. I knew I was blessed, but I'm choking up now at the overwhelming support I'm getting. 😭. I'm going to give this class my all. Full heart, full attention.


My GoFundMe for the developmental editor certification from UCLA online is FULLY RAISED!!! The only thing left are the required books. If you'd like to help out with the books, they're on Barnes & Noble ---> HERE

It's an ironic situation to be in. I rarely, if ever, swallow my pride to ask for help, but I also take pride in what I do. Since I've been furloughed from massage work at the spa since mid-March (going on six freaking months), I started beta reading to fill in my time and stay connected to the writing community.

Guess what, I LOVE it. The writers love the insights and attention to detail I bring to the reading experience and they know I go way above and beyond the typical beta read. I can identify a passage that isn't working like anyone else, but I can also explain why it doesn't work and suggest ways to reword it (or eliminate the sentence altogether) to MAKE it work.

That's editing.

I take pride in massage. I take pride in writing. I take pride in editing. And then there's that issue of being furloughed for nearly six months. My bills didn't stop coming. Why should they?

Being on lockdown with little physical activity has done a number on my back, so returning to massage work may not even be viable, which brings me to that issue of pride. Swallowing it and asking for help. I don't know if the dilemma is clear. I'm sputtering here. Sorry.

I've got a GoFundMe going. I'll get to that in a sec.

I have this thing about trying not to wallow in self pity for too long. By too long, I mean a day or two. If I let myself wallow much longer than that, I wind up circling around the rim and FLUSH, fucking myself.

So, with this attitude of finding a constructive way forward, I searched for developmental editing certification courses. I found two. One is offered online by UCLA, and the other is offered by University of Chicago. Two heavy hitting educational stalwarts. However, University of Chicago tops $1200. Simply out of the running, even if I was still working. That leaves heavy hitter #2 at $700.

Sadly, $700 is still a shitload of money when you're out of work for six months.

I want to work to restore my pride, but in order to restore it, I have to swallow it and reach out for financial donations.

Either my future exists or it doesn't, so I figure I have nothing to lose.

The course description --> HERE

My GoFundMe --> HERE

Asking for charitable donations is a bitch, and fundraising means I have to pester and pester and pester (OR, I'll call it persist and persist and persist) until I can be in control of my fate and be as constructive a member of society as I can be. My opinion remains, however, that my future is a worthy cause, so here goes!

That's all I want. To help writers improve their manuscripts as much as possible to close the gap between them and book buyers.

I won't ask you to "have a heart". I will ask you to reach into your wallets and be as generous as you're comfortable with.

Have a magical day!


Wednesday, August 26, 2020

On Writing - The Competitions

For the first couple months of the global coronavirus pandemic, I had writer's block. Then out the blue, a few different prompts yanked Prison Break out of me and I thought I was on fire. I was and the flame sputtered out into oblivion as quickly as it had lit me up.

Fast-forward a few months, it occurred to me that I had to make some dough in a hurry, so I scouted out some paying writing gigs and contests.

The Masters Review Summer Short Story Contest
Cherry Italian Ices for Summer (competing)
BLURB: Mark's wife, Cerise, is a high risk pregnancy and she isn't too keen on his mother, who fawns all over her. Circumstances dictate they must get along. What will it take? A premature delivery where help is nowhere to be found except in each other.

Fragile-19 (competing)
BLURB: Carissa isn't the most approachable person in the world, but she has one favorite cousin, Lyle. When Lyle enlists in the US Army without telling her, she slips into a depression. Her family likes her better when she's "playing nice-nice", but it isn't who she is. When Covid-19 strikes her inner circle, she feels she's to blame for endangering their lives. She has to find redemption from the unbearable weight of guilt before the virus claims a victim.

Gestalt Media July Short Story Contest
Freedom 500 (won 🏆)
BLURB: Gloria Mooney wasn't expecting to rehabilitate anyone besides abused animals on her 500-acre farm, until six year-old Shevonne is ordered by the court for a pilot program in therapy. All hell breaks loose just as the child starts showing signs that the program may work.

Gestalt Media August Short Story Contest
Mrs. Larrimore's Lemonade (competing)
BLURB: Fifteen year-old Jake wants nothing more than sleek wheels to impress Lilla, and nothing to do with his old witch of a neighbor, Mrs. Larrimore. He has to choose whether to use his impressive savings for the car or to come to his parents' aid at a time of crisis.

International Oz Group 2020 Writing Contest (nonfiction category)
Lessons in Personality Integration from the Movies The Wizard of Oz and The Wiz (2nd place)
Essay exploring the two movies from a psychological perspective

Fractured Lit
Under the Mulberry Tree at the Center of the Universe (romantic prose about the anticipation of a kiss)
Shattered (a funny misunderstanding surrounding a marriage proposal)
The Model (an artist's model learns to see herself as a work of art)
(competing together as one submission)
Elemental Fire
Sacred and Profane
(competing together as one submission)
800 characters total, too short for blurbs

Kallisto Gaia Press
Sleeping Bear (competing)
BLURB: Ecuadoran immigrant Julio and his wife live in squalor in Miami. His luck and time are running out, when a rash decision freaks out a driver so much, she pulls over and starts a fight. Señora Johanna finds it in her heart to help him get to a significant job interview that will turn his life around. The rest is up to him.

The Texas Observer
Second Chance at Heaven (competing)
BLURB: Charlotte wakes up to a dream lover, but as soon as she steps outside the door of her hotel room, a white family makes it clear they don't want her or other Blacks on the property. They're not ready for desegregation. As tensions run high and the threat of a brawl escalates, the words come to Charlotte in an almost supernatural way. Was her dream lover trying to teach her something, or was he even real?

The New Yorker Magazine Flash Fiction
Silly Hobby (under consideration)
BLURB: Mom Justina plans an elaborate birthday party for her three-year old son, but Murphy's Law prevails. New neighbor, fashionable and alcohol-loving Lola, may become a lifelong friend, except for an offhand comment about Justina's passion.

I'm not going to go into any great length about the stories that got REJECTED, but I've been stung, believe me.

In the meantime, since money is tight and getting tighter, say a little prayer for me and my stories, please.

Have a magical day!

Saturday, August 8, 2020

Short Story - Mrs. Larrimore's Lemonade

Mrs. Larrimore’s Lemonade
By Mackenzie Littledale

“Jake,” my mom called out from the kitchen. “Go answer the door.”

I knew the knock -- three quick raps -- meant Mrs. Larrimore from next door. She kept herself doubled over, holding a cane with a hand as brittle as oak bark. She was also crinkly, like the crepe paper I used for arts and crafts back in first grade.

Three more quick raps. “Hello-o-o?”


“Alright, Mom.” I put down my X-box controller, unhappy because I was on the verge of beating the school bully’s best score. I opened the door, and sure enough, crinkly witch Mrs. Larrimore stood with her crazy tangle of white hair like a bouquet of spiderwebs. The creases on her face lit up in the afternoon sun and she breathed in sharply as though we hadn’t seen each other in forever. I faked a polite smile, but then she held out a pitcher covered over with aluminum foil. The acrylic pitcher with sunflowers printed on it meant lemonade--one bright spot to this visit.

“There’s my Jake,” she said, the downturned corners of her mouth turning upward. I supposed she would have patted my cheek with her ancient hand if she hadn’t been holding her cane and that pitcher. “I brought more lemonade. I know how much you like it. Is your mother here?”

I bit back my sarcasm because her lemonade is mouth-watering. “Come on in, Mrs. Larrimore,” I said, standing aside and wishing she could have dropped off the lemonade without staying. Her visits always felt like Playtime with Baby Jake.

She handed me the pitcher and stepped inside. “I just stopped by to make sure you got home safe from school.”

I rolled my eyes as soon as her back was to me. My mom told me a million times to show respect to widow Larrimore, but I didn’t like the old lady’s attention on me. I was almost old enough to drive without adult supervision, and it had been a long time since this old witch babysat me.

“Mom! Mrs. Larrimore is here. She brought something for you.”

My mom came out of the kitchen, with a smear of red sauce on her white T-shirt. She made the best spaghetti and meatballs ever, but she didn’t like cooking as much as baking. My mom liked the precision of baking. Anything that could be improvised gave her anxiety. “Why, hello Loretta,” said my mom. “It’s nice to see you.”

“I made lemonade again. I hope you don’t mind,” said Mrs. Larrimore. “Jake’s birthday is coming up soon, and I was hoping to get some clues as to what he might like this year.”

“A 2015 Dodge Charger SE,” I said, completely serious.

“You like those Matchbox cars?”

My spirits sank. Did I really believe my witchy old lady neighbor would buy a car for my sixteenth birthday?

“Jake, be serious,” said my mom. “If Loretta finds it in her heart to give you a Matchbox car, that’s a gift and you’ll be grateful, understand?”

“Hey, she asked.” I shrugged.

She shook her head. “A gift is something extra, and you should always be grateful for one.”

“Yes, Mom.” I wanted Mrs. Larrimore to leave already, so I could get back to my game. “I’ll put the lemonade in the fridge.” I exited the room for the kitchen and hung out in there.

“Jake, pour some lemonade for us, please.”

That wasn’t a bad idea. I always wondered what Mrs. Larrimore’s secret ingredient was.

“Just pour for yourself and your mom,” said Mrs. Larrimore. “I’ll be on my way. My lady friends are coming over to play bridge at four, so I can’t be late.”

I brought two glasses of lemonade with ice and set them down on the coffee table. “Okay, Mrs. Larrimore. Nice to see you, and thanks. I was only kidding about a car for my birthday.”

Once my mom saw Mrs. Larrimore out the door, she took her seat in the living room. “Jake, come sit with me. I need to know something.”

I slumped on the couch across from my mom. My mom: pretty, naturally tanned skin, and with hair dyed in a maple red kind of color in tight curls. “What’s up?”

“There’s something you should know.” She stared into her lemonade and stirred the ice with her finger.

“Like what?” I asked.

“About your dad.” She sighed and threw her head back.

Panic lurched in my chest and I left my glass untouched. “What about him? Is something wrong?”

“How much money have you saved up from working at the grocery store?”

“What happened to my dad?” I demanded.

“I'll get to that, Jake, I promise, but first I need to know how much you have saved up.”

“A little over six-thousand dollars. I saved half of what I earned and you know it’s for a car. Please tell me.”

“I didn’t realize you’d saved up so much.” She gulped down some of her lemonade and put the sweaty glass down gently on a coaster. “Your father…”


“He got laid off. He’s been out hitting the pavement every day looking for work, but we don’t know how long it’ll take for something to come through.” Her chest heaved, glistening with sweat. The artery in her neck throbbed right through her skin.

“Mom, how long ago did Dad lose his job? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wish you didn’t have to worry about it, but you’ll have to contribute toward paying the bills for a while, honey. There’s no other way.”

“When did Dad lose his job?”

“A few weeks ago.”

I gasped and scowled, angry at being left out. “And you’re only now telling me?”

“I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “I know you want a car and you’ve worked so hard for it, but we need to keep the lights on. We have to pull together as a family.”

I couldn’t let my family down, but helping out meant giving up on buying the Charger I had my heart set on. Giving up on the car meant either riding the bus senior year like a dweeb or buying a cheapo, ugly clunker that would never get girls’ attention -- Lilla’s attention. Helping my family meant dooming my plans at being cool. I’d gotten really good at advanced math and chemistry, but not so good at weightlifting and wrestling. I’m still a stick figure in jeans and Polo shirts. The school bully picked on me almost every single day. The car was supposed to be my ticket to the cool kids’ table. I could have been Lilla’s ride. Lilla was a sophomore and the most beautiful, artistic girl in school. The only thing she hated worse than the school bullies was nerds with ugly cars.

I looked at my mom, her face masked in shame and desperation. A trick, I’m sure, to guilt trip me, and I couldn’t help but explode. “I can’t believe you’re ruining my life!” I rose to my feet, nearly kicking the coffee table. “This isn’t fair. It took me two whole years to save up that money. You and Dad told me to work for what I wanted, and if I saved up half for the down payment, you’d help me out. ‘Learn the value of a dollar,’ you said. ‘You’re not a little child anymore,’ you said. It’s not fair to go back on what you promised me, and you know it.”

“Jake, honey. I’d never ask you to man up before your time, except this is a family emergency.” She got up, took hold of my hand and squeezed too tight. “Please. We need your help paying bills for a while.”

My whole body screamed inside me. I couldn’t contain it and I couldn’t put the agony into words. My muscles twitched, my legs antsy. I needed to run, so I bolted upstairs to my room and slammed the door. I’d sooner sell my X-box than give up the chance to impress Lilla. That Charger meant freedom, no more borrowing Mom’s minivan or taking the city bus. “How can you be so selfish?” I yelled through my closed door.

Quick footfalls on the stairs. “Who’s being selfish?” asked my mom, her voice breaking. “Jake, I cannot believe how selfish you’re being right now. It’s hurting your father’s pride to be unable to provide for us. We have to pull together. We need you.” She slumped loudly against my door. “We need you.”

Unwanted tears flooded my eyes. I flung myself into bed and pounded my pillows. I knew she was right, and I had to make up my mind whether to dig in my heels or soldier through the sacrifice to help.

“The longer you wait, the harder I’m going to make the choice,” said my mom.

I couldn’t imagine the choice being harder, but for some reason it felt like a challenge. “Why do I have to give you an answer right now?”

“The electric bill is already late. We have to pay it in a couple days or the power is going off. If the power goes off, all our food is lost. There’s no TV, no X-box, no Internet, no stove, no oven, no microwave, no lights at night, no hot water.” She paused. “Dammit, one.”

Uh-oh, my mom started counting, and that meant she was at the end of her rope. If my dad had already been out of work for weeks, then she must have been worried and anxious all that time. I could barely get my head around what she was telling me about what we stood to lose without electric power. I had no idea electricity powered so much. I mean, I guess I did, but the thought of losing so much terrified me.

“Two. I’m warning you, Jake. If I get to three, you may as well move out. You think you’re grown, support yourself.”


“Open this door right now,” she shouted.

“Alright.” I got up from the alleged safety of my bed and let her in. Her make up was smeared to the outer corners of her eyes. Eyes red, swollen from fear and flashing with anger. I’d nearly pushed her too far, but I still didn’t feel heard. “Mom, I’m sorry, but you don’t understand what that car means to me.”

“Riding Lilla around, impressing her, freedom to get yourself to work, taking your friends to the movies. How could you think your father and I don’t get that?”

I took a step back, eyes opened wide. She did understand. “You know I have to give all that up, and you’re still asking me for my savings?”

She sighed loudly, her shoulders trembling before they relaxed. “Your father and I have discussed this -- you can’t imagine the back and forth -- but in the big scheme of things, keeping the electric on is more important…”

“It still doesn’t seem fair.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. This is so hard to ask of you, but we ran out of options. Once your father finds a new job, all the money we borrow can be replaced, but how long can we go without food, or air conditioning, or cooking, or hot showers? How would you do your homework without Internet access? How could any of us get by once we can’t recharge our cell phone batteries? Jake, this is serious. This is urgent.”

I bowed my head and hid my face in my hands. My mom took me in her arms and we cried -- blubbered really -- holding onto each other, her hot tears soaking through my shirt. Our insecurities flowed into each other, and it was unbearable. I held her tighter. “Don’t cry, Mom.” I couldn’t help but notice my ceiling fan kept spinning, the air conditioner whirred, and the lights never flickered.

Later, when my dad got home from job-hunting, Mrs. Larrimore called. My mom took the phone into the kitchen and spoke in hushed whispers, shooting glances at me while I poured a glass of lemonade. Nobody made lemonade as tart as Mrs. Larrimore. It was the best. I had a weird feeling Mom was blabbing our family’s financial woes.

“Jake,” said my dad. “Come here, son.” He sat heavily in his Lazy-boy, but he didn’t lever his legs to a reclining position. Instead, he leaned forward on his elbows, with his fingertips pressed together, like an old-time villain plotting on taking over the world, except for the creased brow and defeat in his eyes. My dad had always been my original superhero. We weren’t rich, but we’d never been without power or food.

“What’s up, Dad?”

He stared at his polished, brown leather shoes. “Your mother told me you agreed to help out with the bills, and I just want to say thank you for manning up,” he said, nodding. “It’s not easy to get laid off, not by a long shot.” He looked up at me with a desperate spark of hope in his eyes. “Something’s going to give soon, and I promise you’ll recover your money from me.”

“I believe you, Dad. Mom told me.”

“Honey,” said my mom, coming into the living room. “Loretta Larrimore invited us for dessert tonight after dinner. She made your favorite, tiramisu.”

“That sounds nice, I guess,” said my dad, shuffling a deck of cards to lay out a game of Solitaire.

“Do we have to go?” I asked. “Her house smells like cedar and mothballs.”

“Yes, it’s a nice offer. Jake, honestly.”

While my mom put dinner on the table, my dad took half my savings. His hands moved slowly at first, but then he closed his fists on the money and withdrew his hands as quick as lightning. That felt worse than a million wasp stings, but I stood straight and tall. The power would stay on.

At Mrs. Larrimore’s, my mom put me to work, cutting the tiramisu and serving tea. Mrs. Larrimore patted my cheek, called me such a fine young man. “I remember babysitting you, you know,” she said. “You were such a joy to watch. Then you started getting older and going to school. I helped you learn your addition and subtraction tables. It wasn’t long before you needed help memorizing your multiplication tables. Remember that, Jake?”

I breathed out, remembering. “Yes, Mrs. Larrimore, I do. You helped me with math, and that’s where...that’s where my love of numbers came from. You taught me to add and subtract with chocolate chip cookies.” I smiled. “Those are my favorite.”

“That’s a lovely memory,” said my mom. “Loretta, you should see how complicated his math is now. Trigonometry and pre-Calculus. I can’t even keep up with it. He’ll be ready for college in no time. Thank you for all the times you kept an eye on him.”

“It was my pleasure. He was the grandson I might have--” she cut herself off and a ghost of sadness came over her eyes. “Well…”

My mom closed her mouth tight and looked at my dad, ever so slightly shaking her head.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Have you found work yet?” Mrs. Larrimore asked my dad.

“Still looking. I’m sure something will open up soon.”

“I could make some calls for you. I worked for a big technology firm for fifteen years. I know a lot of people,” she offered. “A lot of higher-ups who can make hiring decisions.”

“I’d appreciate that a great deal, Loretta. Thank you.”

My mom winked at Mrs. Larrimore, but my dad didn’t notice.

We played a few rounds of cards. My mom had me help Mrs. Larrimore clean up the dishes and teacups, and then we headed across the lawns back home. A hot humid breeze rustled through the oak leaves and wrapped around us, without a shred of comfort.

“Dad?” I picked up a twig and peeled the bark off.

“What’s up, son?”

“Why does she like me so much?”

“You mean Loretta? Your mother would be the one to know.”

My mom sighed and put her arm around my shoulders. “Honey, she’s always had a soft spot for you. It goes back to before you were born.” She glanced back over her shoulder toward Mrs. Larrimore’s house. “You know she makes her lemonade from lemons on her own tree, right?”

“Yeah, so?” I tossed the naked twig.

“When she was younger, she had two kids of her own, twins, a boy and a girl.” She gripped my shoulder.

“I’ve never seen kids visit her.”

“Oh, honey, they were killed in a car accident when they were about thirteen years old. It’s maybe thirty years gone by now. Their graves are under her lemon tree. Some people know how to make lemonade from life’s lemons, and Loretta is one of those people. When you were born, she took right to you, like she was recovering a chance at motherhood.”

“That’s… that’s ridiculous,” I said.

“Maybe it’s silly, maybe it’s impossible, but she always loved to shower you with affection. I was grateful for that, so I could go back to work part time. You were in good hands.”

At bedtime, I stared out at the unlit windows of Mrs. Larrimore’s house, pondering the mysteries of life, death, and the power of borrowing second chances from neighbors. I’d recover my money from my dad, maybe soon if Mrs. Larrimore’s connections landed him an interview. Mrs. Larrimore would never recover her real kids, but she had some kind of hope in me. She gave me a gift: love for mathematics by way of chocolate chip cookies. Despite looking like a witch, she was the kind of woman who kept her children close, even in death. I could practically taste her love and sadness in the lemonade. I wonder if it’s a combination of love and sadness that makes it so perfectly tart.


Thursday, August 6, 2020

On Writing - Beware

Very early on in This Darkness is Mine's nascent life, a small press approached me. They read a fairly raw version of chapter 1 and offered a publishing contract. I'd already read Cal P. Logan's blog post on his similar experience of being approached by a small press to publish his fantasy novel.

I had reservations. I didn't feel GO.

My Twitter twin Steven Viner did some research into the small press's list of published works. Not one had significant rankings on Amazon. He said it was a sign that they didn't support the authors' marketing or promotion efforts. Meanwhile, the press specialized exclusively in mental illness titles. It could have been a great fit. Except I didn't feel GO.

Plus, in the back of my mind, I felt newb-ish and naive and vulnerable. While I believed wholeheartedly in This Darkness is Mine, I didn't feel it was ready enough. I had braced for criticism, and expected a publisher to say, "It'll get edited."

This publisher also wanted a cover design fee.
I so totally didn't feel GO.

Royalty-Free Stock Photo of a wait street light | #53858 by Maria Bell |  Royalty-Free Stock Photos

I ignored them. Rude, but I didn't know what to tell them. (Weird for a writer, right?)

Flash forward a year or so later, a friend who also has a mental illness was approached by the same small press and he signed with them. I wished him luck and told him I'd walked away.

Right as they went to print, the press went out of business. He decided to go the self-publishing route after all that.

Draw your own conclusions.

I'll say this. Vet your sources. Do not sign on a dotted line with an agent or with a publisher unless you have a list of questions answered to your satisfaction. Don't even know what questions to ask, my friend C D'Angelo turned me on to some guidelines: check this out.

If you're a creative, then intellectual property laws apply. If you can't afford a celebrity lawyer, then try A) searching the local universities with law schools. They may have supervised student clinics that study intellectual property and can help you for free or for a significantly reduced fee; B) call your State or County Bar Association Referral line. The referral line for my county charged $50 for the referral which included a half-hour consultation with the lawyer. The lawyer I was referred to is PHENOMENAL and charged $250 to review my contract. He drew my attention to specific clauses and went over them with me.

I'm assuming your book baby means a lot to you and you're expecting its success to change your life. That's a lot on the line.

Don't treat it lightly. Go into negotiations informed and empowered. There's no guarantee of success, but you can certainly tilt the odds in your favor.

Have a magical day!

Twitter: @mackenzielitt13 / @calplogan / @cdangeloauthor

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Tuesday, August 4, 2020

Short Story - Red

By Mackenzie Littledale

My office closed operations for the day hours ago, but I had a special project to put the finishing touches on, some deep-pocketed potential client wanted the big guns on his side. It was on me to impress their team of buyers. Now that I could sign my name to it with pride, time to get home for Tuesday night tacos.

As I stepped out under the white light of the street lamp, a couple of teens were yelling and shoving each other in the parking lot behind my office building. I’d never seen these boys before, so I didn’t know whether to step in. They could have been riling each other on their way for burgers, for all I knew. Another man, also dressed in office attire, came out of the rear entrance. We glanced at each other, and a knowing look passed between us that nondominant males can never quite get right. I grabbed one kid, and he grabbed the other.

“Hey, back off,” we both said. “Break it up.”

The boys called us names in Spanish and tried to shrug us off, but we successfully pulled them away from each other. Typical teenage males with raging, aimless hormones.

“I’ve never seen you two around here before,” I said. “You best get on home to your folks and stay out of trouble.”

“And don’t come back around here,” said the man, smacking one teen upside his head. Better a smack than a police baton, so I let that go.

The kids shrugged us off, and the man’s jacket flew open, revealing a pistol similar to mine. The boys took off together, and the man looked at my hip. “You packing heat?”

I had to admit he was sharp to notice and trained my eyes on his holster. “So are you.”

“You expecting trouble?” he asked.

“My moms raised me to avoid it, but to be prepared. This neighborhood is pretty safe. Never had trouble before.”

“Ol’ Ginny here,” he said, patting his gun, “keeps it safe, just the way I like it. I live nearby.”

“Ol’ Ginny, huh? I call mine Django,” I said, not sure what he was getting at and taking a disliking to his tone.

His dark brown eyes shot me a warning. “I moved here to start a family.”

“Uh-huh. I have a family, too,” I said, raising my eyebrows, wondering where this conversation was headed. “We like it here.” My blood began to simmer.

“Which car is yours?”

What in the hell? “There’s only one car in the lot, buddy,” I said, pointing to my two-year old Camry about ten spaces behind him.

He turned to look and back at me with pure disgust.

My Camry sat alone under the parking light. It looked lonely and vulnerable, kinda like I was feeling at the moment. I imagined my wife, son, and daughter packed in it for our upcoming summer road trip. We’d voted on Grand Canyon this year. Was this prick gonna let me make it to my car? My heart rate and breathing sped up and my blood grew too hot to calculate.

“Where’s your car?” I asked. Maybe stalling for time to think would save me. Maybe stalling until more late night office workers came out back would let me get to my car in peace.

“My car’s behind you,” he said, nodding his head and looking over my shoulder.

I glanced behind at the only other car in the rear lot, a Honda Accord, in a similar color to my Camry. No other cars beside his and mine meant no one else would be coming. Stalling or not, I needed a plan.

“You play poker?” he asked, hand still within a couple inches of his piece.

“If you want to call my bluff, the fact is I don’t trust you. I’m uncomfortable with whatever this is, man. What exactly is this?”

“I don’t trust you, either.” He spat to his side, but his eyes never left me. “My wife is making my favorite dinner, and I get the impression you’re standing in my way.”

“Way I see it, you’re in my way. I would also like to get home to dinner and my wife,” I said, beads of sweat pouring down my forehead and back. My button-down shirt clung to my shoulders and my mouth went dry.

“You should be clearing out,” he said, jerking his head toward my Camry. “You sure you live in this neighborhood?” He took a few steps to the side and back, patting Ol’ Ginny like a pet.

Two Pistols Symmetrically Directed Down The Trunks Stock Photo, Picture And Royalty  Free Image. Image 130693758.

“I know where I live. You’re the one should be clearing outta here.”

“I’ll leave when the threat is gone,” he said, sneering, his eyes becoming defiant. “My brother’s a cop.”

“The only threat was those kids, and they gone. Long gone. And before you get too high up on your horse, my cousin’s a cop.”

“Fuck you, I’m a goddamn law-abiding citizen. Haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You the one brought up calling police. I ain’t done anything wrong either.” The angrier I got, the more my office vocabulary escaped me. He was getting down into my core, where the words reigned raw and unrefined and jagged.

“Yeah, but we both know the truth, don’t we?” he said, coming close enough for me to feel the heat of his breath. “Cops don’t like niggers.”

We stood eye-to-eye and a cold shiver coursed through me. I imagined my wife getting a phone call that she’d been dreading for our whole lives. “Who you calling nigger? With bologna on your breath, pasty-faced piece of shit,” I demanded, standing my ground. I stood straighter, clenching my fist. I peered into the hate-filled abyss of his soulless eyes, breathed in his stink. His sweat stains spread around his neck, his cocky expression summoning my outrage. I had no way of knowing what my chances were of getting home alive.

“You don’t belong here. This is my neighborhood,” he said, growling.

“Listen, I pay my mortgage, taxes, and bills just like you. This neighborhood is mine, but damn you make it hard to trust a white man.”

“What was that, boy?”

Being referred to as a boy unleashed a blind rage from even deeper than the realm inside me of jagged and raw words. It may not have mattered after that point who shot first, but his shot hit me square in the shoulder. I got off two rounds, hitting him in the chest and blowing out his right kneecap. It’s just as anyone could have known, should have known: the blood pouring from our wounds cascaded in red. It pooled on the asphalt, with glints of silvery light from the streetlamps, taking with it some element of our souls, and laying it to waste.

Closed door and puddle of blood Royalty Free Vector Image

I ran behind the enclosure for the Dumpster and called my cousin. Claiming my cousin was a cop had been a bluff; he was an EMT. He and two ambulances arrived within minutes. The prick and I got taken to the same hospital, and that’s all I knew of his fate for the time-being. After they admitted me to a room, I called my wife to come see me. “Can you bring me a couple extra tacos?”

While I waited for her arrival, I had time to reflect on the night’s events. I never knew where in the human anatomy racism resided, but it surely wasn’t in the blood. Blood has ever been, will ever be, universally red.