A New Story

*NOTE*
Okay people - I don't usually write fiction, but while I was in Portland, Maine, this weekend, my two friends and I came up with a brilliant story line surrounding the central lighthouse of Maine.
I will write in sections as I think of them, but I need feedback - let me know what you think!!!!!
P.S. There is no title yet, if you think of one, let me know!

I am barren.

The dusk of early summer is broken occasionally by the rotation of the lighthouse in the distance, the bright flash making its way across the wind ruffled pages of my journal.
I have known about the painful emptiness of my womb since losing my heart to the man of my dreams twenty years ago; I am now forty-two.
I am the last of my bloodline.
I close my eyes to the sounds of nature around me, filled with the beauty of the water lapping gently against the rocks, the screeching of the gulls as they banter for food and romance, the tinkling of the wind chimes hanging from the roof of my porch, feeling the warmth of the lighthouse beacon against the blackness of my eyelids.
With a sigh, I turn back to the empty paper in my lap, lifting my pencil to compose the beginning of my end.

I have lived in Portland, Maine for the entirety of my life. Having done an extensive amount of traveling, I can say with utmost certainty that this city is the one to which my heart is closest. Actually, my entire family originated in Portland, near the lighthouse now gracing my veranda with her radiant beam. There is quite a story in the history of the Portland Head Light. It isn’t known to many people, albeit many people would not believe it if they heard it.
You see, dear reader, I am, in fact, one-eighth of a Vampire. My fingers are chilled with the breezy intake of your gasp, one of which I much anticipated, worry not. The possibility of Vampires in the world of Lamborghinis, Ipods, and the World Wide Web seems ludicrous, I am well aware. However, exist we do; only, it’s quite a myth that we feed on human blood. Of course, that myth did begin with my family, but we’ll get to that.
First, I must tell you why I am writing this story.
You see, I am the last direct descendant of the Beaumont bloodline, and as I am unable to bear children, the story of my existence will end with the covering of my deep grave. Thus, I must leave my mark on the world by a different means. It shall be my way of living forever, so to speak.
Ah, I see the frown of confusion upon your brow. Don’t Vampires live forever?
Dear reader, you have a lot to learn about my kind.
My story really begins in the year of 1791, while America was still young and vibrating with new settlers. As I am more human than Vampire, it was my human ancestors who are the main reason for my existence. They were the first keepers of Portland Head Light’s beam, maintaining its life for the sailors roughing the Atlantic Ocean, the bright sweep of light protection from the treacherous cliffs of the rocky coastline.
In the first days of its operation, the quaint house now adjoining the white tower was non-existent. The people of my family lived near the lighthouse, their one job to protect the ships on the horizon. The clan of Flannery’s filled the small house to bursting, with four children and two goats.
There was one brother, however, who was unlike the rest, the “black sheep” of the family, if you will. His destiny lay elsewhere.
And it was he, dear reader, who set into motion a curse so powerful it took hundreds of years to break.
His name was Simon Flannery.

Recurrent Regurgitation

As a flight attendant, I must attend a boring training class once a year called "Recurrent."

It should be called "Regurgitation."

I feel like I'm a student in the class where Ben Stein is the teacher and he drones on and on about Red Eyes Clear Eyes.

I already KNOW everything in these tortuously long slide presentations.

I want to SCREAM.

Seriously, if the people attending this class don't have this information ingrained in their heads after a year - or longer, dear God - of having this job, then heaven help us if they are involved in an emergency.

Vampire Lover

Vampire Lover

There is something to be said for having too many clothes – thank God for Goodwill. This was my precise thought as I drove to the donation section of the local thrift store to lay aside my years of wardrobe malfunctions and runway disasters into the hands of people who could care less about style and more about warmth.
I disembarked from my vehicle to be met abruptly by the stereotype of thrift store workers in Atlanta. A young black man, attractive, I will admit, quickly scooped up my bags as he scoped out my bod. Not that he should have been impressed.
However, impressed he seemed to be as a grin slowly split his cheeks.
“So, where you goin’ all dressed up?”
Ugh, WHY does everyone think I’m “dressed up” if I wear a dress??
I politely smiled back, saying almost through clenched teeth, “I’m not dressed up. I’m just going…book shopping.”
“Where at?”
Please, I thought. Humor me by not butchering the English language.
“The Book Nook, next door.”
“Aw, shawty, jes’ come in the Goodwill! We gots lots a books fo’ sho!”
Well, so much for not killing English. He just put about three hundred bullet holes in her with an M16.
I followed him inside the loading door to get a receipt for tax purposes, I suppose, although I hate the thought of numbers and filing taxes, so I think I threw the receipt away.
Anyway, the point of this story is the boy I saw as I rounded the corner of that door and passed into the shadowy, cool interior of the building.

I looked up into the blackest of midnight eyes I’d ever seen. At the edge of the table stood a boy with skin of the purest white marble, nothing to blemish the perfection of his face. Contrasting beautifully with his skin was his dark shirt, the V in the collar revealing sinewy ivory cords in his neck. His hair was as black as a night sky without a moon, silky and smooth, falling in loose waves about his shoulders.

“With a moan she dug her fingers into the midnight depths of his hair, the glossy smoothness of it like dark water against her palms.”

Oh, by the way, that last part was a faux-romance novel excerpt that ran through my head as I gazed on his tresses.
I stood there speechless as the bumbling idiot wrote up my receipt, unable to take my eyes or thoughts from the brooding, quiet beauty in front of me. He stared at me for a few moments and I couldn’t help but think of him as a Vampire, struggling against his ravenous desire for human blood, trying desperately to fit in, fighting to keep the hunger in his eyes from betraying him. I felt strangely drawn to him, as if I was supposed to know him, and a voice inside was urging me to talk to him.
I would have, but given the circumstances, I didn’t really have a chance.
As I walked back out into the sunlight, I couldn’t help but glance back at him, wondering if he would dazzle me should the sun catch a glimpse of his alabaster skin.
Alas, no such wonder was bestowed upon my Vampire. I noticed he began sorting through boxes of donations, and only then did I begin to wonder what he was doing there. At first I thought he was only a donor like myself, but when he appeared to be working, my mind starting turning.
The gears came to an abrupt stop as English Butcher asked when I’d be back.
Why, God, do I not think of what I say before I say it?
“Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be back sometime to bring more of my goodies.”
Yes, those were the words out of my mouth.
Cringing inside at his inevitable response, I tried to hurry away as he sucked air between his teeth, and muttered under his breath, “Oh yeah, you can SHO’ bring me some o’ yo’ goodies!”
Returning to my car, I turned to my partner in crime.
“Do you see him?” I breathed.
“The boy with the beautiful white skin? Yes…I’ve been watching him the whole time. He looks like…”
“A vampire!” we finished together.
As a drove away, his face kept haunting my thoughts. As we drifted through the nearby bookstore, I finally turned to Ashley.
“Do you want to go back?” I asked.
“Yes!!” Ashley laughed.
Back we drove, determined to find out who this Too-Beautiful-For-Goodwill-Donations-Department employee was.
Of course we had nothing to take back to donations, although I suggested we go on a shopping spree in Goodwill and re-donate it all. We nixed that idea early on. Taking our posts next to the “Employee Only” doors, we waited for a victim we could bestow our bizarre query upon.
We soon realized our quest may prove more difficult than we first thought. Most of the folks sporting royal blue Goodwill aprons were of Hispanic descent, rapidly firing Spanish inquisitions (no pun intended) to fellow employees.
To no avail we searched for someone who spoke more English than “That’ll be twenty-five dollars, please,” to answer our strange and random question.
Ashley suggested I go through the doors and when I was caught pretend I didn’t see the sign. I just might have if I’d had a nice Goodwill apron to disguise me.
Finally, after ten minutes of hopelessly craning our necks to see through the small windows of the doors, hoping to catch another glimpse of our lovely vampire, I gave up and went to the nearest employee.
“Excuse me, miss,” I said to the woman nearby who was sorting through musty dresses.
“I know this may sound strange, but I was wondering if you could tell me who the nice man in the back was?”
I proceeded to explain his looks and that he’d been so helpful I wanted to write a letter of commendation. Okay, that sounded like a bit much, but if I told her the real reason, that we thought he looked like a Vampire right out of the Twilight book series and that we wanted to find out if he was indeed Edward and was one of the Vampires who DIDN’T drink human blood, then maybe I could marry him and find out if he has any brothers for Ashley, I can daresay she would have called security, in whatever form that may come at a Goodwill.
Sadly, we didn’t get QUITE the answer we were looking for.
“Well,” she said in perfect English, “I’m not sure if I know exactly who you are talking about…I don’t know for sure if he works here.”
Determined not to give up, I suggested he was perhaps a good-hearted volunteer?
“Oh! Yes, we have volunteers…like for community service.”
“Oh?” I said. He was a Vampire who didn’t kill humans AND he helped his community in his free time? Could it get any better?
“Yes, community service, for you know…DUI’s, petty theft, driver’s license problems, you know, like that.”
WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
OmG. Of COURSE he would be some criminal who opted for less jail time by slumming away in the donation department of Goodwill.
WOW. I know how to pick them.
Ah well, it was still an adventure.
I told Ashley in a fit of almost hysterical laughter as we left the store, “Wow, that was all for nothing…all that scheming to find out he’s a convicted felon!”
“Well,” she said with a smile, “You can always blog it.”

She knows me too well.

His Eyes

His Eyes

Glittering Gold,
The summer
Breeze across beaches
Of September sands

Copper Pennies,
Cinnamon flecks,
As laugher splashes
Across the ocean

Now Yellow,
Sinking sun
Behind the horizon
Shadows lurking deep

Tempestuous Green
Waves toss,
The ocean giving
Way to storm

Finally grey
Of dawn,
Peaceful silence floating
Upon the tide

Of Drunkards and Seatbelt Extensions

Chicago to Fort Myers.
Everyone please remind me to refrain from ever doing that leg of a journey EVER again.

First off; seat belt extensions are prohibited in the exit row. This rule is implemented due to the lengthening of the seat belt once the extension has been added. This could, of course, impede an expeditious exit should an emergency occur. And, of course, on to the plane walks a woman who weight at least 350 pounds and will definitely be in need of an aforementioned extension.
Please don't sit in the exit row, the incantation revolves in my mind.
Crap, there she goes. 21A.
The poor man beside her was leaning out into the aisle because he was unable to sit upright. I'm pretty sure he was inebriated - he babbled incessantly and about nothing.
Samantha, my trusty L2 flight attendant in the back, kindly - and as discreetly as possible - informed the woman she would have to move to a different seat should she need the extension. She then informed Sam that she needed the leg room and didn't want to move.
Yay!
The flight was full and every person with working eyes on board was going to see the woman have to get up and move. There was no where to put her that she could fit except business class - which was full, too.
We then called the gate agent supervisor down to beg a business class passenger to switch seats with the woman...finally we moved her to the front of the plane where she could fit AND use her extension legally.

Fast forward to beverage service.
I asked all my business class passengers what they would like to drink. I get to 3C, where my friend has moved, and she asks for a Bailey's on the rocks. I got a little miffed because she didn't pay for this seat, we were trying to be nice to accommodate her, and then she expected a free drink. Okay, she can have one, I told myself.
2D and 2F were steroid-popping, heavily tattooed, tanning-bed baked gay men. It was completely unexpected, you know, like when the tough Army sergeant in the movie drops the soap and ends up loving it.
*ahem*
Anyway, the "woman" in the relationship was nice - the "man" not so much.
But, I digress.
Within five minutes seat belt extension has asked for a Vodka Cranberry. I sigh and accordingly bring her the order. Another ten minutes, she wants another Bailey's. At this point I'm really getting irritated. ( I said to 'im, you pop that gum one more time...and he did) - Sorry, that was a Chicago quote. =)
Ten minutes more pass - and she asks for ANOTHER Vodka Cranberry. I give it to her but am going to tell her it's the last one if she asks for another.
About thirty minutes pass and nothing. Good.

During that thirty minutes, however, a woman in the main cabin comes up to use the lav. Oh. My. Gosh. She REEKED of alcohol! I HATE the smell of liquor anyway, and ESPECIALLY the stench of it on someone's clothes and breath!
She stood there laughing about nothing in particular and then tells me that she has not flown in ten years because every time she gets on a plane the plane crashes, the engine catches fire, or the wings fall off. According to statistics, I'd have to say she is the most unlucky person in the universe.
*sigh* Drunks, wow.
She then proceeds to tell me how rowdy of a passenger she always is, and that she now only flies "super-something". I wish I could remember what it was she said, but when I questioned her, not knowing what it meant, she said, loudly, and right in my face, along with one of those breathy laughs you see intoxicated people have in the movies, "DRUNK! HAHAHAHAHA!!!"

*enter a stretcher for Meredith as she passes out on the floor*

Back to seat belt lady. We are experiencing quite a bit of bad turbulence, and of course the seat belt sign comes on. Let's just call seat belt lady 3C. 3C gets up to use the lav. We ask her to be seated as it isn't safe to be up.
"Oh, don't worry," she told us. "My dad is a pilot, I do this all the time."
WHAT?
"Ma'am, that's a bit irrelevant right now."
Frankly, I wasn't as concerned for her safety as the safety of the passengers she may have smothered to death had she fallen on them. I'm sure she had enough padding to prevent a major injury to herself. Sheesh.
As she goes back to her seat, she - oh yes, she did - ask for ANOTHER drink. It wasn't the amount she was drinking as much as it was the PRINCIPLE of the matter. She was taking major advantage of us doing her a favor at this point. The other flight attendant jokingly suggested I pour out the Vodkas from the bottle and replace it with water to see if she noticed.
So, I did it! I thought it would be funny, plus I was so over this woman. SHE DID NOT EVEN NOTICE. She had asked for another one within ten minutes. I did the same thing with this one. When she asked for a Bailey's I knew I couldn't fake that one and so I told her we were about to land and service was over.
UGH. I was so over that woman by the end of that flight! Actually, I was so over everyone. The man who switched with the seat belt lady started getting lip with Samantha because she didn't have a computer on board to tell him RIGHT THEN when he was going to get his free voucher for giving up his seat.

Not to mention horrid-breath-lady-who-sho

uld-have-died-ten-years-ago-according-to-statistics
wants to have two beers. I tell her I can't serve her any alcohol because she "appears to be intoxicated". Thank goodness she complied, saying, "That's okay, doll, just cancel those beers." She grabbed my sweater as I walked away, pulling me back unexpectedly to say she "loved the sweater!!!"

Last night we had a medical emergency - a guy began having blood pressure problems during a VERY bumpy landing. We didn't know how bad he was until we landed. I rushed back to his seat to check on him, finding out that he couldn't speak due to his attack and that his wife, of a different nationality than he was, spoke very little English! GREAT! I had no idea what was going on. I kept asking if he needed orange juice because his wife managed to say diabetes. I didn't know, though, if it was shock or coma, and each need different treatment. Thank God we were at the gate soon. We called emergency medical assistance on board to take care of the guy - poor thing, he was whiter than I have EVER seen a living human being, not to mention the sweat streaming off of him and the full bag of vomit he held in his hand. Ugh.
If his wife knew of his condition I think she should at least learn how to speak the English needed to help her husband in a future situation.

Okay, well, that's all for now.

It's Christmas Eve and I'm in Dayton, Ohio. Yay.
Tomorrow I'll be in Kansas City, Missouri, where at least it will be my first WHITE CHRISTMAS!! =) That's kind of exciting.
It would have been more exciting should a certain someone called to let me know he was taking me out like he was supposed to, but according to a wonderful new book I just found by Greg Behrendt, "He's Just Not That Into [Me]."

It's actually very liberating as ironic as that may sound.
Don't ever call a guy, ladies.
As this good book says

"He's just not that into you if he's not calling you. Men don't forget how much they like you, so put down the phone. If he's not calling you, it's because you're not on his mind."

Ouch, I know, but a breath of fresh air in a weird way.
Every girl should read the book.
It's amazing.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Love you!

The Agony of TRUST

To trust.
An incessant topic of contemplation inside my tumultuous brain.
How many times do I have to be trampled upon before I decide enough is enough?
Ere long have I laid my heart upon the altar of complete openness only to gasp painfully, clutching at my chest as the dull ache once again sears through me.
It will be different this time, my foolish spirit pleads to the wisdom of my mind.
Unfortunately, the wisdom with which my mind gently admonishes is only gained by the relentless slicing of my soul.
To love and let love.
There is no easy way out. For if I hold back, never giving or living and always expecting angst, surely I shall become a bitter and forlorn young woman.
I am young yet…still, I find in myself a cynical monster slowly but surely rearing its hideous face and taunting me with maniacal laughter as it slurps up the poison of betrayal upon which it thrives.
If walls could talk, many a sad tale would they relate of a mascara-smudged tenant and cheerless songs adrift in the dark, black night wrapped protectively around the one who bravely wears joy in the sunny day, midnight a thankful shelter to her who needs the solace of tears.
There are times when I wish wholeheartedly to slam the door in the face of those who make their intentions towards me known. I want to believe that they are true hearts, but so many times have I been disenchanted that I subconsciously draw iron bars about me as fortification.
A quote from a recent film put the outlook of our modern world into harsh perspective for me. As Giselle prepares to marry the love of her life in the perfect fairy-tale world of make believe, the evil witch plots to send her to the most horrific place she can imagine, the real world, a place where the witch believes “Happily ever after doesn’t exist.”
I speak not only of romantic love or relationships, but any time two people connect in any way, the beauty of new trust lies innocent and unblemished, hopeful and ready to blossom into something strong and lovely beyond imagination. How I ache for each new chapter of trust and love in my life to thrive and prove that old witch wrong.
A wise man once said, “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it completely intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it careful round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless – it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable…the only place outside of heaven where you can be safe from the dangers of love is hell.”
Robert Frost once said, “I can sum up what I’ve learned about life in three words – it goes on.” How true this rings. I must take a breath and land with a splash into the winding river of life. No matter how big the obstacle, the river’s water always somehow makes it through, even if it is in almost imperceptible drips.
I suppose I should take C.S. Lewis’ and Frost’s words to heart and realize that to fully live in this crazy adventure of life I must be able to keep an open and fresh heart, realizing that there are good times and bad, but there are neither without both. Each wound sustained is a story to tell, a shoulder of support for another fallen comrade, and through the healing process, valuable lessons which can only come with time.