she took the pill and all went black. [trigger #154]

**Okay, so after all that nonsense, I think I should finally be back for real. This time has really sucked, but I’m think I’m going to feel really light once it’s all over and done with. Either way, I should have time to write and start the long process of catching up.**

He gripped her gently by the shoulders, squeezing just enough to get her attention in the midst of her stupor. “Noreen, listen to me, I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to decide.”

“Rick? What’s happening? Where am I?”

“I can explain all that later. I don’t mean to get all Matrixy on you, but you have to take this pill if you are going to go any farther with me. Your heart won’t survive the journey unless you take this pill. It will put you in a controlled coma, and your heart will slow down enough that it can take the rigors of the trip. If you won’t take it, I have to leave you here.”

“Mm, what? Rick, I don’t understand. I feel so woozy and cloudy in my brain. What’s happening? I’m really starting to freak out.”

She looked up into Rick’s face, and even in her confusion it was easy to read his compassion. It sobered her a bit. “Rick, tell me what’s going on.”

Rick looked back over his shoulder to see if anyone else was near. Then, he looked back into her eyes and brushed his thumb over her cheek, cradling her face in his palm. “Listen, I can’t explain what’s going on. I just need you to trust me. This is really important, and I really need you to take this pill. I just can’t force it on you, you have to take it on your own. Can you trust me?”

She was terrified, but something about the intimacy of the moment had gotten to her. Instead of speaking, she looked into his face, and for the first time ever, she kissed him full on the mouth. Then she tossed the pill into the back of her mouth, swallowed it, and all went black.

His nickname was Toro even though he never… [trigger #86]

His name was Jhonny (yes, that is where the h is supposed to go in this case). His nickname was Toro, even though he never did anything that resembled a bull. The nickname probably derived from a combination of his size and a healthy dose of irony.

When you think ‘Toro’, you think of bullfighting, no? An enraged animal fighting for its survival and territory. Jhonny was nothing like that. His nickname probably should have been Buey, or Steer, because for the most part he could be found standing around with a vacant stare, chewing gum.

He’d been an energetic kid, but somewhere along the line in high school he just got to staring and chewing, just like a cow. No one knows what might have happened, just the outcome.

Maybe he was fortunate and the nickname had been given to him by a few ladies he’d known, in relation to an anatomical endowment. Then again, if he’d ever been with a woman none of us had ever heard about it, so that seems unlikely in a small town like this one.

All we know for sure is that his nickname was Toro, and that on the 1 in 4 chance he might respond to you at all, he’d have been as likely to respond to Toro as to Jhonny.

two weeks later, it happened again. [trigger #72]

It’s hard to get people to believe me when I say that a drunk driver literally crashed through the front of our house and into our living room while we were out getting ice cream. It’s impossible to get people to believe me when I tell them it happened twice.

I was 20 years old, home from college for the summer, and we’d gone out to get some Molly Moon’s on a nice, warm evening. We came home to find the street in chaos as police tried to deal with the situation while also holding off curious passersby.

At first, we couldn’t believe our eyes. It was like we couldn’t get our brains to accept that it was our house, but with the front wrecked and in tatters with the back of a car sticking out and an odd angle that kept both back tires off the ground. Some guy had gotten drunk down the street at his friend’s house, had fallen asleep only seconds after starting his journey, and had proceeded to accelerate into what had been our living room.

It was bizarre, but we were fortunate to have been away from the house so that none of us was hurt, and insurance was taking care of things with an uncharacteristic promptness we all found refreshing and reassuring. Construction had already begun on getting things patched up within the week.

It would have been perfect, all things considered, to have been fortunate enough to avoid physical injury and have things getting repaired in short order. I say would have because two weeks later, it happened again. Not just another car drove into our house, mind you. The same driver drove into our house. He got drunk with the same friend, got into a different car, and while the details of what actually happened next are sketchy, the gist is that he ended up in our living room again. The only different on our side, because we were somehow not at home for this even either, was that we were getting Trophy Cupcakes instead of Molly Moon’s Ice Cream.

I’m honestly not sure if the moral of the story is, ‘don’t drink and drive’ or ‘go out and buy yourself sweets as often as possible.’ Maybe it’s both.

“What’s that?” “Magnets! We’re going to need magnets!” [trigger #57]

Courtney had waited for this day her entire life, her wedding day and night. As a good Christian, she’d also saved herself for this, sexually speaking. When hormones started kicking in and her body was craving all sorts of carnal pleasures, she’d battened down the hatches and held out until the day she said “I do.”

She’d been promised by her elders that waiting would make the night magical. Somehow, waiting until her wedding night would create a remarkable sacred whirlwind of sexual bliss.

Her and Alex hadn’t actually talked about the wedding night yet, because they were worried that talking would lead to doing before the appropriate time. Still, she just knew that Alex would want what she wanted for that night: a quiet, intimate, beautiful time where they could gently enter the world of sex and celebrate their love for each other in the most physical of ways.

Thus, she was very surprised when she entered her hotel bedroom after changing from her wedding dress into a sexy little nightie that her girlfriends had bought her, and Alex was dressed like Abraham Lincoln.

“Alex, why are you dressed like that?”

“Because, we finally get to have sex. I’m going to enjoy all the fantasies and dreams I’ve ever had!”

“You have a sex fantasy where you are Abraham Lincoln?”

“Yes, mam! Your grizzly bear outfit is on the dresser, over there.”

“My what now?”

“Your bear outfit. This is going to be so awesome!”

“Wait, why do I need a bear outfit?”

“To have the best wedding night sex ever! I still don’t have everything we’ll need, so I’ll run down to the Walmart to grab the final touches before we get started.”

“I don’t understand, what else could we possibly need?”

“Well, I’ve got the bike horn, the strobe lights, the moose head, the firecrackers, and the pixie sticks. I’ll need to run down and grab the bananas, some sugar, some G.I. Joes, and a football.” She stared at him confusedly. “Oh, and industrial strength magnets”

“What’s that?”

“Magnets! We’re going to need magnets! That’s definitely the best part.”

the door at the end of the hallway. [trigger #45]

There’s a door at the end of the hallway that no one goes through. Its knob is never touched. Its threshold never crossed.

It’s been nine years, but still, no one dares enter that room. The memory is still too painful. There’s almost a superstition that if any of us walks through that door we’ll see her hanging there again.

I suppose it’s true. I would see her hanging there again, if only in my mind’s eye. I still see it all the time.

Bodies don’t swing pendulously like they do in the movies. They would need more slack for that, a much higher ceiling. A body just hangs limp. Like an effigy, it is a terrible mockery of the form you once loved.

I was only eight when it happened. When my sister decided she didn’t want to be here anymore. I went thought the door at the end of the hallway, wanting to ask her to put makeup on my face, or dress me up, or some other random blessing that let me pretend I was older than eight. What I saw instantly made me far older than eight. I would never fully be a child again.

It was the last time I’ve ever walked through the door at the end of the hallway.

I see that image every day. Of my sweet sister in that terrible repose. I know I would see her there if I went through that door again, so I know the door will remain forever closed to me. I’ll pretend it’s not there, block it from my mind as best I can. I’d burn the house down if it were up to me.

I see my sister hanging when I close my eyes to sleep. I see it in my dreams as I’m sleeping. I see it when I let my vigilance slip and begin to daydream. So many times it comes to me when I do things that I have no choice but to do. I do get to choose whether or not I will use the door at the end of the hallway, and so I will use that little choice to keep the memory at bay as best I can.

I’m losing quite a bit in this choice, but that’s the price I pay. There are so many other things that are now locked in that room with the ghost of my sister’s hanging body. There are things that were once precious to my sister and me, now certainly covered in layers of dust and cobwebs. There are photographs and magazines; teddy bears and perfume bottles; makeup and posters and clothes that would fit me now, would help me feel closer to her. But they are forever closed away from me, behind the door at the end of the hallway.

the moist maker. [trigger #32]

He was the most wanted man in Capitol Hill. People who were attracted to men wanted him, people who weren’t attracted to men wanted to be him (although a few people who weren’t normally attracted to men were confused by their own interest in him).

There wasn’t a person alive who understood his appeal completely, least of all himself. Of course, one could imagine theories and ideas and educated guesses about what made him so attractive, but it was all so subconscious that the real reason was illusive.

The folks attracted to him were the least aware of why they wanted him so badly. Everyone just knew they wanted to know him, to be near him, even to be seduced by him.

He was nothing special physically. He wasn’t unattractive, but he was certainly nothing to write home about. His hair was often unkempt, not in that effortlessly sexy way, but in an absent minded professor sort of way. His teeth, while well cared for, were ever so slightly yellowed by years of chain smoking and coffee drinking. His nose had an odd hook to it, yet the nose wasn’t large, just hooked, giving the appearance of a small bird of prey. The color of his eyes were an ordinary brown, far from striking. His chin was just a little too weak, his cheek bones just a little too strong. His face was a collection of features that bordered on being attractive, but just missed the mark.

He made the odd hilarious comment now and then, but no one would call him funny. He saw things pretty clearly, but no one would call him brilliant. He was just a tad too shy to be considered confident, just a bit too short to be physically imposing, and his belly was just round enough to keep his body from being one normally considered ‘sexy.’

Yet, his track record with the ladies was impressive by any standard. Women just seemed to gravitate toward him. He was attentive and comfortable in his own skin, and it seemed that when he listened he was really listening, when he was speaking he was genuinely meaning the things he said. Somehow, his lack of any striking feature combined with his authenticity and ability to see people made him at once safe and intriguing. On one side, it was only his lack of novelty that was novel, but on the other side it could be said that someone who truly listens when someone else speaks is novel indeed.

There were times his male friends found the way women interacted with him irksome. Yet, the jealousy quickly faded, because he listened well to his male friends, too. His authenticity gained their trust and affection as well.