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The Air BNB listing said it was close to the city center, clean, one bedroom, a kitchenette, a bath and a lounge. And it was cheap. I submitted the deposit confirming the three-month booking. On the flight, I slept, it kept me from thinking. From the airport, I boarded a train that whisked me to the small mountain town. My bag bumped across the cobbles as I followed the directions on my phone.

He met me with the keys and walked me up to the second floor. He gave me the Wi-Fi password and said I should call him if I needed anything. The rental was exactly as advertised. He was nice, but I couldn’t wait for him to leave. The door shut behind him and I listened to his footsteps carry him downstairs and onto the street. The breath I had been holding since before I boarded the plane escaped and I collapsed on the left side of the couch. I ran my fingers through my hair and wondered if I would really do this.

I had come this far. Reaching under the couch, I felt along the frame until I found the gun.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

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I wanted to punch Alastor and make him shut up. But, I had almost wrestled my prized possession from the garbage bin. One more good yank should do it. With both hands, I grabbed the red metal, braced my feet against the bin and pulled. The garbage bags tore, spewing their contents everywhere as I felt myself flying backward, holding tight to my prize.

I hit the ground, hard, knocking the air from my lungs, before my tricycle landed on me. I heard Alastor laughing, heckling me, calling me a “dumb ass”. He stood, pointing, slapping his leg as he doubled over, braying at me. My lungs filled with air, I gasped and struggled to sit.

Embedded in my palms were pebbles from the gravel alley. I tried to brush them away and realized I had tears in my eyes. Alastor wasn’t going to see me cry. Determined to complete my task, I brushed at the remaining pebbles and wiped my eyes. Standing wasn’t easy, it required kicking and pushing my bike with all the force I could muster.

I looked at my bike. It had been shiny and new when Santa brought it and I couldn’t wait to ride it. Christmas morning, I had stroked the sparkly red streamers attached to the handlebar, letting them slide through my fingers. Now one was missing. My bike looked like it belonged in the garbage. Alastor had broken one back wheel, bent the front rim and scratched the red paint. I wanted to beat Alastor until his face looked like my bike.

Instead, I grabbed the detached wheel and pushed and rolled and dragged my bike to the porch. The gear I needed was already there, waiting. Tank who lived two doors away rode a really big bike, a motorcycle that thundered and shook the pictures on the walls when he went by. Every night when he got home he chained his bike to his front porch, and that is what I planned to do. I threaded the chain through the front tire spokes and around the post, locked the padlock and put the key in my pocket.

My bike wasn’t going anywhere. And it wasn’t because of the chain and padlock. Tears gathered again, but I fought them back. Tank was always working on his bike. Maybe he would help me with mine. I checked the padlock one last time and headed to Tank’s house.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

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My mother started my addiction. I woke to each morning as a child to the aroma of coffee. Coffee my mother made. It seeped into my bedroom tickled my nose and insisted I get up. It was more persuasive than any alarm clock could be. Coffee wiggled into my brain, pulled my lethargic body from the bed and reeled me into the kitchen. The food on the table was inconsequential, rendered unpalatable by the intoxicating allure of coffee. Mornings and coffee are so entwined in my conscience there is no way to separate them.

It wasn’t until I entered high school that my total indoctrination began. A full schedule of social engagements, extracurricular activities, and work meant I started homework late in the evening. Coffee came to my rescue, allowing me to compete with my peers and excel. The trend continued into college.

Then the doctors published articles stating coffee was bad for you. The cited increased blood pressure, insomnia, incontinence, indigestion, and headaches.  How appalling. They couldn’t be speaking about my beloved coffee.  So, I turned my back on it, cold turkey.

The biggest surprise was that I didn’t suffer from the withdrawal systems they warned me about. Zip, zilch, nada. But I listened to the reports, denying my desire until it faded into nothingness. Years passed, and my life remained free of coffee; a life that was a little less full, a little less aromatic, devoid of a morning ritual. The pendulum swung, they conducted new studies and published new reports. Now they extolled the beneficial properties of coffee. I was flabbergasted; I was duped, bamboozled, hoodwinked into a course of action based on what amounted to a defamation of the good character of my beloved coffee.

We have reunited me and my morning cup of Joe. A ritual I will never again break.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer