Sometimes I Really Love Myself

Self Portriat

A cigarette dangles carelessly from her fingers. Smoking Joes, full flavors. Cowboy killers made by Indians. “$20 bucks a carton at the Res!” she will tell you proudly even if you don’t ask.

Her hands shake as she brings the cigarettes to her lips repeatedly. She talks fast and loud with excitement, commanding the attention of everyone around her. “Hey, all I’m saying is that I love my coffee and my cigarettes and I’ll never stop.” She pulls on the cigarette every time her lungs need to inhale, as if she can’t breathe if the oxygen weren’t nicotine ridden. She smokes like a nervous coke head. The way she shakes, it would seem that she has too much energy to contain inside her body. Or she suffers from anxiety. Or she drinks too much coffee on little sleep. It’s actually a potent combination of all three. But she continues on with little regard for concern.

She makes sure to converse with everyone she makes eye contact with. She makes obscene jokes and loud confessions. “I’m going to tell you honestly. I like my men fat and insecure. I’m not ashamed!” And she isn’t. She will tell you she used to scrape her arm with needles in middle school so it looked like she was cutting herself. She will next tell you what’s purple and oozes puss and cries [“a skinned baby in a bag of salt”]. She doesn’t care if you’re young, old, male, female, white or yellow. She will throw a laugh and a question at you and force you to catch it and engage in a while conversation with her. All the while nervously taking drags from cigarette after cigarette.

When she stands, she locks her knobby knees. Often, on days when the coffee is strong, she will shake them back and forth, locking and unlocking like a door to a room she can’t decide is safe to leave. Her legs are bowed and they support a skeletal frame that seems to shrink day to day. Her hips protrude around her shrunken stomach and beneath her shirt, her ribs angrily stick out. It’s as if her bones are wearing away at the skin, desperate to get out and dance. She is excruciatingly thin and is void of any obvious signs of womanhood. They say she looks sick but her laugh makes them think twice.

Her hair isn’t sexy, but it’s fitting. It’s a coppery, frizzy mop that refuses to be tamed. It’s not natural, it’s a perm. Her natural, baby fine, straight, mousey brown hair just didn’t fit her. So she changed it. Just like the name her parents gave her. She changed that too though she won’t tell anybody why. “Do I look like a Jessica to you?” she demands when asked.

Her clothes are no sexier than her hair. Ordinary t-shirts she collected over too many thrift store visits are the only thing she can think to wear on normal days. She wears them with the same pair of old jeans and black and white chucks that were once fashion statements but are now the only ones that she owns. She tops her average outfit off with large, loud sweaters that look like she raided a retirement home in search of jackets when the weather dropped. She wears them with confidence, despite the fact that they’re dumpy and they cost her $2.

She talks with a lisp and has a line of stubborn freckles that cover her nose and apple cheeks. The only thing beautiful about her is her eyes and she knows it. She won’t date anybody with blue eyes because she insists that “a man needs to have such ugly eyes that he thinks mine are the most beautiful in the world and he tells me so every day.”

Sometimes you’ll find her in the kitchen, cooking and dancing at the same time. Sometimes you’ll find her in the library or coffee shop chatting with a friend or to her journal, or buried knee deep in a book. Sometimes you’ll find her staring, spacing out the window of the bus. Sometimes you’ll find her spacing out while walking down the street. And sometimes, you’ll find her scribbling something in her notebook in the worst place to start scribbling in a notebook because that’s where the mood struck and she’ll forget what her brilliant thought was if she waits to find a sensible place to squat.

But you’ll nearly always find her with headphones on while Yoni Wolf and Benjamin Gibbard sing songs of angst from the MP3 player in her pocket.

And you’re guaranteed to always find her in a good mood.

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This is a self portrait exercise I did for my new writing project, based on Jenny in Buffalo, which isn't really different from Jenny in Japan, though I'm always changing to my circumstances.

Break Up Note to My Childhood

I wrote this sestina poem for a creative writing group. It's actually my first attempt at poetry since my angsty high school freshman poetry and my most recent fail: "there are dishes in the sink, but I'm too tired to think". I think it's an improvement, even though I'm not going to take this as my cue to start writing poetry. I still suck at it.

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Dear Childhood,
I hate you and to tell you the truth, I always have
I couldn’t wait to get rid of your ugly face
You were rotten, immature, and stupid
And you are no longer any fun
So this is me saying to you—goodbye

But I’ll speak honestly and say that it hurts to say goodbye
You were a big part of me dear Childhood.
Back in the day you were enjoyable and fun
And I really wish it didn’t have
To be like this. Writing you this note is stupid
But it’s your fault. I no longer want to see your face

Remember when you were there for me to yell in the face
Of troubles? When there were so many goodbyes
You helped me make new friends. You were innocent, trusting… and stupid
But were always there for me dear Childhood
What happened? Why did you have
To leave me? We had so much fun.

The truth is that you left me. Tell me, was it fun?
Breaking my heart and laughing in my face
“Grow up” they say. And so you left. Adulthood is all I have
You left so suddenly, without even saying goodbye
I woke up and you were gone dear childhood
I’ll admit now, wishing you were dead was stupid.

Dear Childhood, I hate you. I have
Been struggling without your laughter and stupid
Yet simple and easy way of handling situations. Why didn’t you say goodbye?
Adulthood beats me and calls me names. People see the bruises on my face
They know that you left me dear Childhood.

You left your shit at my house childhood.
Pick it up or I’ll burn it. I don’t want to face
Your posters and stuffed animals. They’re stupid.
This is me breaking up with you. It’s no fun
But then again, you already left me. You have
Hurt me and abandoned me. Goodbye

You have to admit though, it was fun.
I’ll miss your stupid, ugly face
This is goodbye forever Childhood.

A Moment Ruins Forever

Note: I wrote this for a writing contest on Fiction Press, the prompt was "Forever means nothing when you're living in the moment." We'll see towards the middle of the month how I faired! It's a little dark, and over a PG rating to forewarn you.

“Forever means nothing when you’re living in the moment”

I learned this about a half a year ago when Johnny took me for a ride in his beaten down truck. He gave me a lift after school and took the long way home. It was the ride that changed my life. I learned that afternoon what “the moment” felt like. “The moment” felt like a battered truck bumping along on dirt roads, dust invading my lungs and the strained heartbeat from the fear of getting caught.

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I stood in the bus lot with my books held close to my chest, thinking that if I wished hard enough, the buses would come back and I wouldn’t be stranded here at the school. I heard the doors open behind me and I peaked. Johnny McMillan walked out jangling his keys. I pressed my books closer to my chest and my feet firmer to the ground. McMillan was one of those idiotic farm boys who never talked in class because he never knew what was going on. His long hair annoyed me, and his plaid shirts always smelled like manure.

He didn’t pay any attention to me, the only living soul in the parking lot. He opened the door to his country-boy truck and stood on the running board. He called towards me, but I ignored him. He couldn’t possibly be calling me. He called again. He finally yelled “Hey Smartie” and I looked up.

“Do you want a lift?” It would be the first time he persuaded me without trying.

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My books remained close to my chest as Johnny’s truck ungracefully rolled over pot holes and gravel. I think I was trying to hold my vitals in since they were going awry. Eric would hate me if he found out I got a ride from another boy.

I don’t know why I took the ride. I hate Johnny and his kind. Looking at us now, we are so different. He is wore dark, dirty blue jeans and a white t-shirt. His brown hair went down to his shoulders. He had the window opened and he was leaning on the door with one hand on the steering wheel. He was the epitome of relaxation and devil-may-care. I wore a tan skirt with an expensive designer blue t-shirt. My shoes were sandals, and my hair was braided. I was clean; he was dirty. He was uneducated; and I was going to Harvard. On opposites side of the car were opposite people.

“Aren’t you going to ask where I live?” I finally asked, wondering if he forgot I was in the car.

“I already know” he said, his attitude almost meeting mine.

I looked at him with surprised look on my faceand he returned my look with a chuckle.

“I did yard work there once,”

“Oh…” I looked out the window. He drove on some back road and the trees were going by at a fast pace. The speedometer said we were going 65. My hands clenched my books further. Johnny noticed the small movement. He looked at me, then back out the window, then back at me again.

“Hey relax. Do you want me to slow down?”

I relaxed because he told me to. I relaxed because he sounded like he cared about how I felt. He remembered me and my house, and he cared about me despite the fact that we’ve never spoken. He noticed me. That’s when I felt it. The moment. How fast the car was going, how persuasive and caring Johnny’s voice sounded, how I wasn’t supposed to be doing this. I felt wild.

When I got home I called Eric.

“The bus was late.” I told him.

I thought of that ride all night. I thought of how in that moment, the future was too far ahead for me to even think about. Eventually, my worrisome mother and protective boyfriend melted away. My chemistry homework, and soon, the point of the ride melted away. I had never felt that way before. I had never done anything so uncalculated. I had never cared so little.

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I asked Johnny to give me a ride home every day after that. I told Eric that the bus picked up a new stop and I would be a couple minutes late every day. I don’t know where I got the courage to lie.

Johnny and I started talking more and I began to see past his backwards upbringing. I don’t really know what I saw, but I didn’t see the same white trash I did before.

One day while taking me home, he stopped at the marsh and parked.

“Why do you want me to give you rides every day?”

I felt like he was mad at me, like he hated giving me rides. “Well, so I get home early? The bus takes too long… I’ve told you that.”

He gave me a sideways glance of doubt.

“If it’s too much….”

“Why don’t you just tell me the truth?” His persuasive voice unlocked me. It was then that I realized that I loved Johnny, if only for everything he represented.

“Adventure. I like them because it makes me feel like I’m human and I can do crazy things.”

Before I knew it, he had his hands in my hair, tangling my life like the fine strands in his rough fingers. He crushed my dreams when his lips crushed into mine. And I loved it so much.

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“Forever right?” Eric said as we were about to get off the phone that night.

“Forever and ever baby,” I said, hoping that my voice held the same conviction it had before Johnny changed my world.

In retrospect, Eric and I were the perfect couple. We were the couple that wore nice dresses and button down tops to school in sophisticated pastel colors. We were the golden couple at school, all the teachers loved us. We were both supposed to compete to be valedictorian of our class and then go to college. In our parent’s eyes, we would grow up, get married, be rich and successful with three beautiful children.

In retrospect, I loved Eric because of everything he represented. We were perfect life mates. He represented everything I loved and followed; rules, family, school, future. But those weren’t the things I wanted; adventure, carelessness, strength, life… that moment. That was Johnny.

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Slowly the transformation started. It began with the lies to my parents and boyfriend. Lies about things I never did and friends I never had, just so I can have an excuse to be with Johnny. It was the times we hung out in his room and made out. It was the first time I was touched so sensuously.

Then came the parties at his barn and the private parties between us and a bottle of liquor in his truck at the marsh. It was all the people that stopped recognizing me as Ms. Perfect at the parties.

It was Johnny teaching me how to feel the world in ways I never knew that the transformation grew on.

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It’s 7 o’clock. To my parents I’m at the humane society. To Johnny and I, I’m on his mattress, lying next to him, facing him, lips passionately teasing the other’s. His hands inched their way up my shirt like they do every time, but this time I didn’t stop him. It has been a month since I first tasted Johnny, another since I first tasted his life. Each day Johnny has awoken me more and more. I wanted him to make this final.

I looked into his hazel eyes and felt his long hair tickle my cheek. I used to hate that hair, but now it creates a veil of privacy that I feel safe in. I look at him tenderly and run my fingers through it.

Eric is far from my mind as Johnny unbuttons my pants, keeping his eyes locked with mine. My parents are nowhere as he kisses me on the inside of my thighs. The future is too far away to think about as he touches every inch of me. What did any of this matter when you had life touching you in places you’ve never known you could feel in before?

It all changed for good when Johnny McMillan took my virginity. Forever was out of my sight forever from that night on. I was officially addicted to the moment.

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I left them a note saying I was leaving.

I packed a suitcase and called Eric.

It was 2am.

I spoke the same way I always used to; calmly, quietly, and with no passion. That’s the language Eric understands.

“I’m breaking up with you. Yes, there is someone else…” I paused for a second. “And he’s fucking me.”

I jumped back into Johnny’s truck. This time I didn’t care if my parents heard his tires across the gravel. I was living in the moment, and the moment was a battered truck bumping along on dirt roads, dust invading my lungs and the strained heartbeat from the fear of getting caught.

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I have a large, sweating fountain pop in my hand and a Butterfinger squeezed in between my arm. I am fumbling with a new pack of smokes, trying to get the cellophane off. I’m a little drunk and a lot stoned. It’s a typical lazy Tuesday evening. I finally manage to free a cigarette through my fumbling.

That’s when I see her. I almost don’t. She is sitting in the backseat of a car, leaning over, looking at me. Her elderly, educated, well off looking parents sit in the front, conversing about something. She has a sweet looking face with small blushing lips and small almond shaped eyes with a natural cat like look to them. Her hair is long and soft in a light shining brown color. She is clean cut and perfect looking.

I know her. She is me. Future straight ahead of her with nothing in the way, everything lined up and laid out. How different I am now. I look different, I look like a joke because that’s what I am. I am living at a party house because that’s the only place I could stay after Johnny kicked me out 2 months after I left home. My parents won’t take me back, my college savings are dwindling, and school is something I go to so truancy officers don’t come knocking on my parent’s door. I have nothing to live for anymore but this cigarette I’m hitting and the rum I will mix with my cold mountain dew later. I thought I was going to be getting so much more out of this, not runs to the gas stations late at night for my meal of pop and Butterfingers. Not a dirty floor to sleep on that smells like booze and vomit. This was supposed to be different.

I can’t remember the last time I felt the way I did in Johnny’s truck. Lately it’s all been a blur of constant sickness. There is something living inside me. It’s a clump of guilt, homesickness, the future I lost, and despair. It sticks together like hair and mucus and stays inside me like a hairball I can’t cough up. I never knew how bad I wanted to cough it up until now. I feel like vomiting.

As that girl and I look at each other, I see the life I should have, the life I would have had I not thrown it away. We look at each other, wishing to trade places with the other. I think to her, hoping she will catch my message somehow; “Don’t wish for this. Don’t wish for this. This is not what you want, you lonely, confused, perfect girl. Don’t wish for this. Forever means nothing when you’re living in the moment. And that’s exactly what this is… a moment. But a moment ruins forever.”

Adventures in Creative Writing.

I have a few things I want to talk about.

I have been working on this story called "Just a Girl From Rushmore High" for a year now. I have about 19 chapters written in my notebook, and it was really going places, but it wasn't written the way I wanted to. I have had this idea for a long time of a desperate author stealing a young girl's blog to plagiarize it and what would ensue soon after that. My story was ok, there were a few plot holes and not enough of the characters were developed enough, and since a lot of it was mindlessly written, the writing wasn't that great.

This is the premesis.

First of all, "Just a Girl From Rushmore High" is the second novel I've tried to write since I moved to Michigan about a year and a half ago. I am sort of upset at myself when I think about this. I like to call myself a writer but in all honesty, I haven't written much. I write a lot in my journal, and I have a lot of short stories, and I think about writing a lot, but compared to a lot of people my age, I just haven't really written anything. I am really dedicated to this story. Don thinks that I should lose it and try a different story idea, but I can't. I have to finish this story.

I have been writing it for a while. I would write it in class and on the bus all the time. Then all of a sudden I had a research essay to write and then immediately after that I had my exams. I was to pick it up after I graduated, but the look of those three notebooks full of crap sitting there just intimidated me. I felt like I lost contact with my characters and my plot. I haven't written a single thing since at least May.

Since I started writing it, I also got very into Fiction Press, which is where I post these works. I was reading all kinds of stories and leaving lots of good reviews, hoping the same favor would be returned to me. I was also in search of someone who could truly help me with my story. I gave up after this person flaked out on me, but then I got high speed and I decided to give it another go. I believed [and still do] that another writer to bounce ideas off of would do wonders for my work. When I write I feel like I am lost and alone in this jungle of ideas and my vision is very foggy. I feel that if I had a friend to help me, I wouldn't feel so lost.

I went on a desperate search. I searched on every writers forum I could find. And now I am happy to say that I have found two people to help me with writing. One, a 14 year old, is helping me with writing excersices, and another, a 17 year old, is helping me figure out my story and help me with plot holes. I don't know how people can write alone, but perhaps that is because they're good writers who can get their thoughts down very easily. All I know is I feel so inspired and motivated when I have someone to talk to about it.

I am also happy to say that I have restarted my story. I have changed the gender of the second main character, taken out a few characters, and added a little bit of backstory. I am currently having a problem trying to figure out how to write the author's point of view in this story, but I have realized that if I take my time with it and actually concentrate, I can do much better.

I also realized today that sometimes I write in the way you would see something in a movie. When I do that, my writing comes out very bland. For example, I was writing my first chapter today and I was trying to start it off. I started off visualizing what my character would be doing. My character ended up getting out of bed and the narrative continued to say that she had writers block. This is what would happen in a movie. You would watch a character get out of bed. I scratched that immediately, knowing that if I started my first chapter this way, the rest of my story wouldn't have a chance. I have learned that I am not writing a movie here, I am writing a book, and I need to stop not taking chances and just write in a way that shows the reader more than tells them.

It may be a while before I get this story done, but hopefully not too long. I hope to not spend a year writing this story. I would like to finish it and clear my mind up for another story that I will like better, one that I can write using current experiences. This story is about a 15 year old girl and I am very much past this stage in my life, despite the fact that it haunts me. I watched a movie today and got thinking about mothers and daughters and how mothers are so attached to their children sometimes, so attached that they can be controlling. And I thought how that must start early on when the child is in the womb, but then thought that I had no idea. And for a brief [totally not serious] second, I kind of wished I was pregnant just so I can feel that bond with another human being. But I'm not pregnant and don't plan to be pregnant anytime soon.

My point is this; I could write about that experience if I were pregnant. But right now, I can write about making life changing decisions in your youth, thinking you have the world in your hand, thinking you own everything and you will never fail. This is what I can write about because this is what I am experiencing. But how can I write about that when I have to finish this story about the 15 year old?

I'm sorry for rambling, and I know that my posts have been pretty invaluable lately. I have been extremely clouded. Sometimes I don't really know how I feel, and therefore cannot express those feelings. It is a very frustrating situation for me to be in, so I stay far away from writing in my journal or blog to keep my self esteem at a healthy level.

The Fickle Finger of Fate

I did a writing exercise with a new friend of mine where we wrote different stories using the same prompt. The prompt was "Write about the fickle finger of fate" and let me tell you, I had a heck of a time doing that. It took me three times and a small idea from Don to finally get the story. I haven't been doing much creative writing, so this is just the oil on my rusty creative writing joints. I hope you enjoy it anyways. I might finish the other two ideas I started and post them as well and see which one people like better.

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The Fickle Finger of Fate

It was the fickle finger of fate that has gotten me here. It tore me from my house, away from my Ma and Pa and tied skin tearing ropes around my wrists. The fickle finger of fate beckoned me out of the caged wagon that I had seen so many other guilty women in before and lead me to the lake. But I am not guilty. I am not a witch. I am innocent.
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It was the fickle finger of fate that brought Jonathan and I together. It was the Sunday that I had forgotten my bible. As I heard Pa bring the wagon to the front of the house, I prayed to God. “Dear God, please don’t let Pa notice that I don’t have my bible.” I frantically searched in the ground around my father’s work shop for something that looked square enough to hide my secret.

“Abigail!” I heard my mother call. My toe hit it first and I bent over to pick it up. It was wide enough to look like a bible under my skirt. I hid it in the pocket of my apron and ran across the field and joined Giles in the back of the wagon as my Ma sat next to my Pa in the front. I slid the piece of wood further into my pocket and felt my he art pound as Pa looked back at me. His moustache twitched as he looked down at my pocket. “Dear Lord, please don’t let Pa know I lost my bible. I will promise to be more careful and keep your word close to my heart as you have asked me to and never lose it.” I knew Pa would give me twice the lickings if he knew that I had substituted the bible for a log.

God answered my prayers and Pa looked away, hitting the horses’ backs with his reigns and encouraging them with a clicking noise. My feeling of relief lasted briefly as we made our way to the church. The rocking of the wagon churned the nerves in my stomach. The entire congregation would judge me as a heathen if I pulled the log out of my pocket and put it on my lap as if it were the bible. I would bring shame to my Pa and receive even more lickings. I began to regret looking for the log and began to curse the devil for planting the idea in my head. But cursing Satan wouldn’t replace my bible in my apron pocket.

When we arrived at the church, there were few wagons there. My Pa insisted on coming to church early to show God and Pastor Howland how pious he and his family were. This had worked to my advantage, giving me enough time to linger and rid myself of the cursed log. After Pa tied the horses to the fence and Ma gathered little Giles in her arms, I remained sitting. Pa gave me a stern look, waiting for me to get up and follow him. His stern eyes almost made me drop my confession and log into his hands, but the memory of the last beating I received for forgetting to milk the cows kept me silent.

“Sir, the ride today left me feeling sick. May I please take a minute to try to catch my breath?” I was finally able to say, however nervously. I did feel sick, but not from the shaky wagon ride I take every Sunday. I felt pale and hot and I must have looked this way for Pa nodded his permission. I watched him walk until I was assured that he was inside the church.

I looked around to see if there was anyone around. I did not see a soul. I pulled the log out of my pocket and looked at it. It was an imbecile thing to do. Pastor Howland would surely ridicule me in front of the entire congregation and make an example of me to all the other kids in the town. I knew I would never be able to live it down. God would never forgive me.

“Is that a log in your pocket?” a voice said, causing me to jump and drop the log. It was not my father, but it might as well have been.

“Good Morning Jonathan” I nodded my head down, both out of respect and to hide the blush on my face and the beating of my frightened heart. As I kept my eyes on the floor, I watched as Jonathan Howland’s hand came into view from my bonnet and picked up the log at my feet.

“What in the good lord’s name are you doing with a log Abigail?” the Pastor’s son asked me.

“I-uh…” I stammered, not able to come up with a very quick excuse. I knew I was done for. Jonathan would surely tell his father and he would never talk to me. He was 3 years older than me and out of school already and had barely talked to me before, but I did not want him ignoring me.

All of a sudden I heard him laugh. It started off small and turned to a sweet, jolly chuckle. I listened for a second with my head still bowed. I looked up and he was shaking his head and chuckling at me with the most beautiful smile on his face. I had never known how beautiful his smile was until it was directed at me.

“You are a strange little girl Abigail,” He said. I quickly bowed my head and began to race away when he stopped me.

“I think you dropped this.” I was expecting to see him holding out my log, but instead he held out a bible. I didn’t ask any questions, I kept my head bowed and took the bible from him and hurried back to the church. Later during the service, I saw him looking at me. When he caught my eye, he gave me a mischevious smile. I quickly turned away, but slowly turned to look at him again and managed to return a small smile.

The fickle finger of fate is a cruel child playing with its toys, for without my bible, Jonathan and I would never have become friends. It was also a piece of evidence used against me in my trial.
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The fickle finger of fate put that stone in my hand. The fickle finger of fate pointed the way, straight to Martha’s head. She was a friend. But she was also a witch. All the girls said so. They claimed on God’s Word that Martha had danced naked, then forced them to dance naked to call up the devil to help her farm. One girl even confessed that Martha was going to sacrifice her. How could those girls lie? They were confessing in a church. They swore to our Heavenly Lord to tell the truth. They weren’t lying. Martha was a wicked, wicked witch who made a pact with the devil every year so he would make her farm grow abundantly. She had sacrificed the girls that had disappeared over the years. Martha was a witch.

Everyone in town showed up to stone her. We must all come together to rid ourselves of the evil. The devil cannot defend himself against a crowd of God loving Puritans. My Pa forced me to come, my Ma told me that they were just stoning out the devil in her and that she would live. I hated the devil that lived in Martha, and I hated Martha for killing those girls and being a witch among such pure people. I picked up a rock and threw it at her.

The fickle finger of fate is an accuser, pointing out the hypocrites and traitors.
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The fickle finger of fate moved Jonathan’s lips into that smile and made me fall in love with him. The fickle finger of fate caused him to tempt me. The fickle finger of fate led us to the pond in the middle of the night.

I had no idea we were going to the pond. I would have never said yes. Since a child I had been afraid of water. But he snuck to my house in the middle of the night and threw pebbles at my window. He beckoned me-the fickle finger of fate beckoned me- out to join him. We had become good friends and we talked a lot at church. I knew my parents wanted me to marry him. He was the pastor’s son, he was strong and pure, he was the perfect husband. Perhaps they wouldn’t be so mad at me sneaking out of the house if they knew I was going with Jonathan Howland. This is what I told myself as I grabbed my shawl and slipped out the back door.

“Where are we going?” I whispered to him.

“Shh, you’ll see.” He whispered back, almost sensuously. I knew that he wasn’t capable of the kind of passion I often dreamt he would have in my most wicked dreams, but I knew he was a good man and he would treat me good and he would give me many children.

It was quite a long walk in the dark and when we began to walk through the thick forest he took my hand. The walk seemed shorter after that since all I could think about was my hand in his.

Soon we were standing on the edge of the pond and in a flash he was taking off his clothes and stood there in his long johns. I was shocked and scared. I did not know if he intended to take me or make me swim, but both those options scared me. Despite my dreams, God would not approve of such actions between two unmarried people. And I refused to swim. Swimming scared me more than defying God.

Jonathan got very close to me. “Let’s go swimming Abby.” He whispered. It was the first time he called me Abby and for a minute I was almost convinced. But I looked at the water past his shoulder and stood my ground.

“No, God would not approve, our parents would not approve.”

“Our parents aren’t here,” he leaned his head down to look me in the eyes .

I backed away from his warmth and seduction. “But God is here!” I persisted.

He suddenly got annoyed. “Where was God when you left your house with me?”

I did not know how to answer that question. Where was he? He was far from my mind as I defied my parent’s and the church’s rules. Where was he now, when I was scared and guilty and wanted to go back home and get away from Jonathan and the icy water?

“I know you love me Abigail. We will get married. But I have to know you, and you have to trust me. Come into the water with me,” he said sternly. It was a different kind of stern than my father. It wasn’t the kind of stern that made me obey, it was the kind of stern that made me shiver with fear and know that obeying would be worst than not obeying.

“No Jonathan, I will do now such thing. I will not lay with you and I will not get into the water with you.” I tried my own stern voice but it came out as a squeak. Jonathan grabbed my wrist and began pulling me to the shore.

“No!” I yelled, but he didn’t stop. That was when I started screaming and panicking. I pulled with all my strength and hoped that I could match Jonathan’s. The pure fear in me pushed me and I finally released myself and pushed Jonathan away with all my strength.

“You harlot!” he called after me. “You will regret denying me you witch!”

I should’ve listened. I should’ve stayed and I should’ve apologized and told him about my fear. But instead I ran. I ran and I didn’t even know where I was running to. I had gotten lost but somehow managed to make it home in time to milk the cows.

It was the fickle finger of fate that condemned me for being pure.

__________

“She told me to meet me at her house in the middle of the night and she wanted to go for a walk with me. She acted like she didn’t know where she was going and I ended up walking to the pond since I visit there so frequently. She then told me to take my clothes off and I had thought we were to go swimming. I took off everything but my long johns, and she got completely naked. I was ashamed to see her in that way since she is not my wife and I asked her to put her clothes back on but she didn’t. She moved closer to me and I backed away into the water for I was afraid of her seduction. I began to get into the water and she got very angry. When I asked her to get into the water she began to scream and speak in tongues about how the water will kill her. She attacked me but I managed to push her off of me and escape,”

“Jonathan Howland, do you swear upon the Lord’s word that Abigail James was possessed by the devil and that she has practiced witchcraft?”

“Yes sir, I do.”

__________

It was the fickle finger of fate that they executed to death by drowning. It was the fickle finger of fate that nobody believed me, not even my own parents for why would the pastor’s son lie? It was the fickle finger of fate that a man I refused to do impure things with accused me of being a witch. It was the fickle finger of fate that twisted my innocent life around its finger like the rocks around my feet and chose my fate.

I was brought to the middle of the lake by two strong men, with rocks tied to my feet and wrists. I saw the entire town watching on, waiting to rid themselves of another evil. But I am not evil, I am Abigail Smith and I was to marry the pastor’s son, and I love God.

I will not kick and scream as they throw me to the bottom of the lake and watch to make sure I don’t resurface. For I will let the fickle finger of fate point to them and tell them all that I didn’t die the way they expected me to.