Wide Open Spaces: A Short Short

By Kristin Bivens

This is a short story I wrote several years ago, loosely based off panic attacks I was having (although, I can promise, no one left me at the altar). I was dealing with all this physical anxiety and I just had to write about how awful it is to experience. Though the situations were different, I think the point gets across in this short story. Enjoy.

Whenever possible, I use the handicap stall in public restrooms. I’m not handicap nor am I too wide to fit into the stalls for the able bodied. I just like the space the handicap stall gives me. Truth is, small spaces freak me out. I need space, I need wide open spaces.
            I never make left turns. I feel trapped by the surrounding lanes of cars. I just take right turns until I’ve made a left turn. I have to leave about a half hour early during any given trip to the supermarket or movie theatre. But it is a sacrifice I’m willing to make. The few times I’ve tried to make a left turn since the incident, I’ve had a panic attack and the feeling of death rushed over me like a stampede of elephants on their way to the watering hole. I was forced to put my car in park, exit the vehicle, walk two lanes over to the curb and lay down on the grass. It was humiliating and I held the left turn lane up for an hour.
           Needless to say, I never make left turns.
           The incident isn’t something I speak of often. It causes me to hyperventilate but I don’t cry. I should be over it. I should be healthy and well adjusted by now. But when you see the cause of your anxiety all the time, it never goes away. It’s always there, teasing you like brownies baking in the oven.
           I don’t like small towns either. There’s not enough room. Plus, it’s my opinion that people get stuck in small towns. It’s never a choice. Somehow a year turns into years and there they are in the same place they were.
           Sadly, I’m one who has found herself stuck before she even realized it was happening.
           Small towns just don’t have enough space. You can’t go to the store without seeing your babysitter from when you were 12 years old and wore braces. Your doctor runs into you at the post office, asks how your ‘situation’ is. Your teacher from 5^th grade happens to eat dinner every Tuesday with her family at the restaurant you’ve decided to grab take out from. They are everywhere. I can’t stand it. I need space, I need wide open spaces.
           He told me while I was wearing white. He couldn’t have told me before, when I was wearing any other color. I loved white before. Now, I can’t stand the sight of it. I’ve washed every piece of white clothing I have with a red sock. My wardrobe is now mostly made up of pink t-shirts that used to be a crisp white.

I was also wearing a dress. A white dress. So you can draw your conclusions as to where we were when it happened. I don’t wear dresses anymore either.
           At movie theatres, I sit at the end of the row, as far away from anyone else as I can get. I have to scope out how full the movie is expected to be before I decide to sit in the back or the front rows. I just have to sit at the end. I need an easy escape, I need an out.
           I need space, I need wide open spaces.
          He comes into my place of business almost daily.
           I just had to get a job at Starbucks.
          And he just had to be a coffee lover.
         Coffee makes me panic. I used to love it. I used to drink 3 cups a day. Now the smell makes me nauseous. I need a new job. The black apron suffocates me. And he is always there.
          I need space, I need wide open spaces.
          I can’t use fitting rooms either. I just take the piece of clothing home and try it on. If it doesn’t fit, I take it back. Not making any left hand turns, of course. There’s not enough space in the fitting room. It’s just like the changing room at the church. The beige and the fluorescent lighting. And then I can’t breathe. Because I’m back in that church, smiling at myself in the mirror.
          So I don’t use fitting rooms.
          I don’t make left turns.
         And I hate coffee.
         He didn’t have the balls to say it in private. No, he had to wait until I was up there on that altar, smiling like a fool.
        “Do you take this woman…?” the minister began.
        He piped up, “I’m sorry, I can’t do this.”
          I looked at him, Mr. Who Was Supposed to Be Right, but I couldn’t see him. I could only see shadows. My eyes were blurry with tears I didn’t even know I had. I should’ve known he would do something to break my heart. Don’t they always?
         I don’t cry anymore either. My eyes aren’t dry but they definitely aren’t wet. Crying makes me feel like I’m drowning. My eyes begged for air as I stood at the altar, finding out my life had been turned upside down in front of my closest and most beloved friends, which reminds me- I also cannot give public speeches or be made to stand in front of a crowd.
         There’s not enough space, there is no reliable escape. Everyone will see me if I’m standing there, by myself. Everyone will see the redness in my face as the blood rushes to my head and the heat starts to rise. Everyone will see as I tug at my white dress, trying to get it off, to loosen its grip just so my lungs can rise and fall. Everyone will see as I run down the aisle the wrong way in my undergarments just to escape. Everyone will see that I’m not enough. That he left me, and he’s never coming back.
          I don’t date anymore. Dating ties you down. It keeps you in one spot because that one spot contains that one person. I’ve given up on that one person. If it’s just me, there’s more space in the bed, in the car and in the house. If there’s one thing I need, it’s my space. A wide open space just for me where no one can see when I’m not enough.
          I need space. I need a wide open, no left turn, hold the coffee, paint the walls black and get rid of the fluorescent lighting, hate the white dress, I need to get out of this small town, space.
         Or I’ll suffocate.
         And everyone will see.

wide open spaces

Series 3, Post 4: Creative Writing Series, The French Nun

By Kristin Bivens

I can pretty much narrow my entire life story down to one single moment when I was 18. 

I was actually in Paris, France, at the time, a strange place for a girl like me to be, and it may be the only opportunity I ever have to be there. 

I spent two weeks in the Netherlands with a Dutch exchange student who had about 20 posters of Orlando Bloom on her wall. Our stay consisted of attending Dutch school, a day trip to Brugges, Belgium and a two day stint in Paris.
           The group and I walked up this gigantic hill of gray stone to the Basilique du Sacre-Coeur the first afternoon we were in the city. I don’t know what it is about Europe, but the whole scene feels like you are in a movie. Places don’t look like that where I come from. God sculpted cities like Paris and decided that people with awesome accents should live there. I was not one of the chosen ones.
           Sacred Heart was just sitting there nonchalantly at what seemed to be the top of the world. I’m sure it’s never known how beautiful it is but the structure and the mass of it is breathtaking. I imagine walking up that hill in Paris and seeing such a work of art before you is much like holding your baby for the first time. Then again, I’ve never had kids so what do I know.
          The inside was perfectly matched with the grandeur of the outside. The ceilings were almost threatening because of their height. Whether or not you believe in God, you can’t deny His existence in a cathedral like that.
           I did all of the conventional touristy things while I was inside—lighting a candle, saying a prayer, staring at the ceilings, etc. I took deep breaths, hoping that if I breathed in the smell deep enough, I’d convince myself later on that none of it was a dream. I had made it across the pond eight hours, on a plane, survived the panic attacks that came with that and was actually able to afford it all.
           I was in Paris, France.
          Not in Niles, Michigan.
          Paris, freakin’ France.
          I went inside the gift shop, which in my opinion, seems a little odd. God isn’t a souvenir. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t buy anything. Of course, I did. I had to prove to someone I was there when in 40 years I told stories of when I was a young woman.
          I also was surprised to find a nun working in the gift shop. Are nuns supposed to work? Aren’t they supposed to lock themselves in a chapel and pray to the Virgin Mary all day? And what does this nun chick do after work? She go out for happy hour when her shift is over?
          I’m getting off track.
         My point is there was a nun working at this gift shop. A cute little French nun in her black and white God-fearing habit.
         So I bought a postcard, one with the picture of the ceiling where Jesus is putting his hands up, looking like a man who could save us all.

         The nun did her thing, punched the numbers, added the total and then to my confusion put her thumb up, which I thought was the universal sign for ‘awesome.’
          I mean, isn’t that what you would think?
          So, of course, me being the reciprocal person that I am reinforced the positivity and threw a big thumbs up right back at her.
          I threw in a smile, too. It can never hurt to give a nun a smile. I’m sure she’s got some sort of pull with the man upstairs. I can’t take the chance that she does and I didn’t smile back at her. That’s just too much on my conscience and my soul. 

         Not only that but I was feeling pretty good about myself, what with getting the big kahuna from a woman of God. I figured I must be doing something right with my life. 

        ‘God approves,’ that’s what her thumb in the air was telling me. Until she reciprocated my reciprocation. 

         You just don’t give two thumbs up like that. They are either lying about the thumbs up or they have a different meaning of a thumbs up. The nun had a different meaning, to my stupid American disappointment.

        She made an ‘uh’ sound with the second thumb and that’s when I realized.

Never trust a thumbs up.

        God wasn’t approving of me at all, he wanted me to pay for my postcard in his house of business.             And he sent this little messenger to do it. So I reluctantly handed over the Euro I owed the lady and tried hard to pretend that I didn’t just give a French nun the thumbs up. How egotistical am I, thinking God was giving me a thumbs up? The thing is, I’m so far from egotistical that my belief that I had done so well in life that God was giving me a thumbs up makes absolutely no sense.
         In a matter of minutes, a French nun summed up my life with one little flick of her phalange (is a thumb a phalange?). Somewhere around every corner, there’s a nun giving me the thumbs up. And me, thinking a nun is actually giving me the thumbs up.

Updates on Shiny Happy People Publishing, LLC!

By Sara E Thompto

Shiny Happy People Publishing is moving forward full-steam ahead. Here are some updates to keep everyone informed on what's new with SHPP:  

www.ShinyHappyPeoplePublishing.com

• We're officially a Limited Liability Company! Shiny Happy People Publishing, LLC became officially registered as an LLC on February 24, 2014!

• Released just this week: our first catalog is available for browsing! Our catalog has over 125 products, ranging from postcards to invitations, and notecards to sheets of stationery. Whether wanting to buy products from us for personal use or as a shop owner browsing for your store, our catalog may be viewed by going to the catalog page on our website. 

• The Shiny Happy People Publishing online store will be up in just a few short weeks!!! In the mean time, if there are any products you would like to order from our catalog, please message us and we'll be happy to speak with you.

• Starting the first week of May Kristin and myself will be meeting with small retail shops in Southwest Michigan, and boutiques throughout Chicago. 

• Moving from Spring, into Summer SHPP will also be meeting with shops in Northern California, and reaching out to shops in Eastern Iowa with the hopes that our main following (Illinois, Michigan, California, and Iowa) will soon have a store near them where they may buy SHPP products, in person. 

Thank you for taking the time to keep up-to-date with SHPP. If you have any questions or feedback, both are always welcome!

Series 3, Post 3: Creative Writing Series---A Story About Jones

     By Kristin Bivens

     Check out Part 1 and Part 2 of Jones' story.

     The next week was jammed packed with interviews, events and editors. I had no time to call Jones, or sleep for that matter. I wanted to know how her project was going, but the job was taking over every moment I had. Although, she hadn’t called me all week either. But when she was being artistic, it wasn’t unusual for her to lose contact with you for a little while.

     Finally, I called her on Sunday night when I got a chance to take a breath. She didn’t answer. Nor did she call back. Odd, I thought.

     On Tuesday Jones sent me a text message that said, “Sorry, I’ve been swamped with my art work. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

     Ok, I thought, that explains it. 

     The next Tuesday Jones finally called me. “You must really be in the zone,” I said, picking up the phone.

     “I have been, let me tell you. I’m so inspired. I haven’t talked to basically anyone all week.” 

     “Well, that’s good then,” I said. 

      She was a completely different person. All it took for me to leave town and here she was, happy as a lark.

     “You are still coming home in about two weeks, right?” she asked.

     “Yes, I will be coming home in exactly two weeks. I got a bonus so I was able to for sure afford it,” I answered.

     “Good. I will have a surprise for you when you get back. It’s called art. But I’ve gotta go, the inspiration is calling my name. And hey, I love you. You have always been my best friend,” she said quickly and hung up the phone without letting me reply. 

      It’s true. I always had been her best friend. And even she went back to painting walls and selling her body on the street, I always would be.

     Two weeks went by without a peep from Jones. I called several times, text messaged about a thousand times and still, I heard nothing. We had never gone two weeks without talking. My mom said she hadn’t heard from Jones in awhile either and Jones’ mother was in Florida visiting her mother. No one seemed to know anything all of a sudden. I guessed I would find her painting in her room when I got home, unaware of the rest of the world. Maybe she was back to painting her walls and was afraid to tell me about it so she just locked herself away and threw away her phone? It was completely possible. But I prayed my entire flight home that she was just in her zone and the art, her real art, not her wall art, had taken control.
     I kissed my mother hello at the airport and then had her take me directly to Jones’ house. Something just felt off and I needed to know as soon as possible that I was either wrong or right about that feeling. It was weird though, things had seemed so much better with Jones and now this two week disappearance? None of it made any sense. 

     Jones large white house was completely dark but for a small light that emanated from her bedroom. Her car was parked in the driveway; the newspapers stacking up on the front porch. I told my mom to go ahead and go back home and I would walk back. 

     I thought about ringing the doorbell, but instead checked to see if the door was locked. It opened as I twisted the knob slowly and carefully. Inside the house, I heard a steady stream of soft indie music. But for that, the house was silent. I tiptoed around, waiting for someone to pop out from behind a corner. The house was eerie and dark. I took out my cell phone to shed some light on where I was walking.  

     “Lumos,” I whispered, laughing at my Harry Potter reference, wishing someone else was there to get the humor.

     The stairs were familiar and yet still treacherous in the dark. The music continued to drone on and on in the otherwise silent air.

     “Jones,” I said, softly. Nothing. As I reached the top of the stairs, the light from Jones’ bedroom led the rest of the way and I put my cell phone back in my pocket.

     “Jones,” I said again. Only music played on. I was scared to walk into her room for fear of what I would find. What if she’d been murdered and left for dead? What if a robber was holding her at gun point? All of these things passed through my mind as I stepped closer to the doorway. What I saw wasn’t what I had expected to see at all. I peeked around the corner into the room and all I saw was a tiny crawlspace. The room had gotten smaller in the month or so I had been away in California. And it definitely was no longer cerulean with an orange sunset. Jones had been lying the whole time. I stepped slowly into the room and took a deep breath.

     The room was so small I felt claustrophobic. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. The walls were now stark white, hauntingly bright in fact. They reminded me of a pure, peaceful person. The white was not undisturbed though. On the wall that used to be orange, articles were pasted haphazardly across the surface. There was no method to their placement, no organization. They were just there, displayed like a work of art. I walked over to the wall to take a better look and realized that the articles looked familiar. In fact, my name was on them. They were all the articles I had written for the magazine and some from even before that. So that’s why she wanted the articles.
     Over the articles there was black sponge paint placed at random for what Jones would probably call an ‘artistic touch.’ In the very center of the wall, between all of my articles, there was a handwritten letter.

     It read:

     

     I’ve come to peace with everything that has happened in my life. But I can’t be here anymore. This isn’t my place. This isn’t the life I was supposed to live. Just remember that none of this was your fault, or anyone’s fault for that matter. The people in my life are the only ones that ever made it worthwhile. Your articles are here to show you that you were always my best friend. And when I’m not here, I’ll still be yours. I painted this room white one last time to show that I’ve finally found peace. I hope you can understand. I love you all.

-Jones

   As I read the last line, my body collapsed beneath me. 

      How did she expect me to understand? Or any of us to understand? And where had she gone exactly? I stayed on the floor, staring up at the wall and the letter. Was I dreaming? Why this whole setup? Why couldn’t she just talk to me? Where the hell was she? I took out my phone and dialed Jones’ number. “This is Jones. Leave your number. Chances are I won’t call you back.” And on went the beep.

     I guess I should’ve expected her not to answer. She wasn’t dark enough to pull a sick trick like this and then jump out and say ‘gotcha!’ And at this realization, I knew she was gone. Where to, I had no idea. But she was gone. I laid my head on her floor, closed my eyes and fell asleep. I woke up the next morning with carpet imprints on my face, confused as to why I was laying inside of such a small, brightly painted room. Then I saw the wall filled with articles. And I remembered. Jones was gone. I had about a million messages on my cell phone from my mother, wondering where I was at. I couldn’t face her right now. I had to make sense of the situation first, if that was at all possible.

     I stared at the wall for about an hour, hoping for a clue of Jones’ whereabouts to pop out of the art. Nothing came to me. Maybe that’s the way she meant for it to be. In fact, of course that’s how she meant for it to be. She didn’t want anyone to know where she was or what she was doing, if she was doing anything. She meant to disappear for good and meant for no one to find her.

     Typical Jones. A tear fell from my eye as I got myself up off the floor and walked out of the room, back towards life. I would go home and I would tell my mother. She would call Jones’ mother. I would sit at the kitchen table, staring at the nicks that I had carved into it over the years and listen as she talked to everyone she possibly could, hoping to find some answers. But if I knew Jones at all, there would be no answers. She would never leave this world without a mystery.

     There was no funeral, no service. Jones mother wasn’t accepting the fact that her daughter was dead. Everyone else chalked it up to a suicide and went on with their life. But for the people close to Jones, that wasn’t the case. She was still out there somewhere, maybe painting graffiti on a brick building or train hopping in Louisiana. Maybe she was miserable, maybe she was happy. Maybe she was in a room similar to the one she left, painting it color after color. No one could possibly know for sure and that’s the way Jones intended it. She found her peace, but she left others without any. As for me, I pictured Jones in Europe somewhere, sitting on a terrace, drinking wine and painting the cityscape. I never thought she was actually dead. My best friend wouldn’t just leave me without a word. I convinced myself that she simply didn’t know how to say goodbye and so she left everything behind and started anew somewhere else. She needed to leave her life behind, and as sad as it was, I was part of that life. But I knew she was out there somewhere, I could feel it in my bones every time I walked past a paint store.

     And on some occasions, I would walk in, buy a can of Eggplant, the happy color, and paint my living room. Just in case Jones decided to show up on my doorstep.