Once Upon a Summer

by Brooke Moss

  Two: Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

  The coppery taste in my mouth and the blood making it impossible to see are clear signs that this isn’t just another morning after a binge. No, it’s still night.

  Three: Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

  A smattering of memories overtakes me. Drinking at the bar—the bartender cutting me off. Stumbling to the nearby liquor store and buying the bottle of whiskey from the wary-looking guy who probably considered calling the cops, but didn’t. Then driving, then flying, then darkness. Now this.

  Blood, alcohol, numbness, upside-down in the seat of my car.

  Four: Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.

  There was another car.

  Five: Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

  I hit somebody.

  Six: Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.

  I hit somebody and I want another drink. I want to move, even though I know I’m bleeding, and I want to find the whiskey. I want to drown in it.

  Seven: Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.

  Eight: Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.

  How many people were there in the car? God, don’t let them be dead. What if there were kids? What if it was a family? What if it was old people? What if…

  Nine: Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

  If I’m not dead, then they can’t be dead. I should have died.

  Ten: Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong, promptly admitted it.

  I don’t even know what I said to my mom, and it probably doesn’t even matter because there’s no way it outweighs all of the other shit I’ve done. I do remember telling my dad to fuck off, and giving him the finger, but he can take it. My mom—she can’t, and she doesn’t deserve to.

  Eleven: Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.

  If I hurt anyone, I want to die. I hope I die. It’ll be the only way I’ll stop drinking, because I don’t have the strength to change.

  Twelve: Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

  Sirens, lights.

  I’m not going to die.

  Goddamn it.

  ***

  Present Day

  “What are you doin’ sleeping out here?”

  I jolt awake, ready for the fight I’ve learned to expect. One hand automatically braces to protect myself, the other one removes the knife from my pocket—a knife I never had the luxury of having before and would be arrested for having now. It’s the most security I’ve had in two and a half years.

  But I don’t need to protect myself from my dad. No, he’s not a threat—I’m a threat to him. So what’s stopping me from turning the knife on myself? I wish I knew.

  All of a sudden, one of the chains on my parents’ porch swing breaks free and my ass crashes to the ground. The wooden seat cracks beneath me. Shit, I better not have any splinters in my ass. Even if I deserve them—which I do—there’s not a soul out there who deserves the lowly job of removing them.

  “Damn it,” I grumble, kicking at the wood.

  Dad holds out a hand to help me up, fear and worry in his eyes. Of the two, it’s the worry I don’t like.

  I stare at his hand, the gesture so foreign that my head starts to spin. When was the last time someone tried to help me out? Everyone’s been so devout in knocking me down, forcing me to stay, pushing me farther into the ground. No one’s wanted to try to pull me back up. Not even Dad.

  Between me and my younger brother, Brandon, it’s always been clear he’s the favorite. I’m just the screw-up son my dad has to claim because of blood. Since I was born, I’ve probably aged him by thirty years, most of which has happened over the last three years. The gray revolting against his brown hair, the bags beneath his eyes, the frown lines etched into his forehead—it’s all from me.

  I stand on my own, refusing his help, then pat the wood chips off my frayed, holey jeans. Dad drops his hand and I don’t miss his disappointment. I can’t even win for losing. The man should be glad I didn’t take his hand. The less contact, the less likely I am to spread the poison I seem to carry.

  “You don’t like your room?” he asks.

  I shrug. I like it fine. Or I used to like it fine. It’s still the way it was when I was sent off. My mom kept it clean, but nothing’s moved. Some sort of shrine for if I ever decided to come home—maybe it’s her way of willing everything to return to normal. I want to be grateful for the comfortable mattress, the door that locks, the window that opens, the bathroom down the hall where I can go without being watched, but I can’t. Walls are too confining.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Liz Ashlee is a romance novelist who recently graduated from Northern Kentucky University with her B.A. in English and B.S. in Library Informatics. She has been published in Loch Norse Magazine and The Pentangle, and has won the Miller Award for Outstanding Fiction Writing. She currently lives in Independence, Kentucky, with her family and dog-daughter, Hero.

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LizAshleeAuthor/

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/LizAshleeAuthor

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  Blog: http://liz-ashlee.com/

  Art with a Pulse

  Clara Winter

  OTHER BOOKS BY CLARA WINTER

  Coming Soon….

  Deepest Midnight

  Art with a Pulse

  Copyright © 2018 Clara Winter

  All rights reserved.

  DEDICATION

  For my mom who loves the beach and my dad, the car guy, who loves to build.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The cloudy, cool morning was expected for early March. Cool for California, anyway. By the time I walked to Heisler Park, set up my easel, and readied my paints, the cloud cover would likely dissipate. My old tote bag, almost thread bare and splattered with paint, waited for me by the door of my little studio cottage.

  The charming, two room space, held everything I had in the world. For a woman nearing thirty, I didn’t have much. This fact creeped more and more into my consciousness. I was eternally grateful my grandmother let me use this space, her guesthouse. Living here, rent-free was a blessing. She said she liked the company and didn’t want a stranger living behind her. Although a simple girl, the thought of having more than a bathroom, kitchenette, and sofa bed had become more appealing. Leaving would be hard, especially considering I was unemployed, but it had crossed my mind more than once.

  I finished my Lady Grey tea, and placed my vintage rose-patterned teacup in the sink. The weather was just as I thought. Predictable may be comforting, but it had also become boring. I closed the peeling sea-green door behind me and took in a deep breath of the floral scent of nearby roses. My well-used, foldable easel waited for me on the porch. I tucked it under my arm, the best I could.

  “Painting this morning, sweet pea?”

  I smiled at the soft voice of my grandmother, Sylvie. She was my closest living relative, and the person I loved most in the world. Leaving the supplies on the step, I walked over to where she was watering her beloved blood-red flowers, my shoes flapping on the gravel.

  “Yes. If I want to be part of Jude’s next local showcase, I need to finish some new material. My old pieces have been sitting too long in his window.”

  I was lucky enough to be a mildly successful painter. Meaning, I managed to sell my work enough to be known locally, but not enough
to make any real money. My beachy watercolors sat in several local stores, and one gallery. The gallery, Art with a Pulse, belonged to my best friend. The fact that my work featured prominently in his front window was no coincidence.

  Bending down, I kissed tiny, white-haired Sylvie on her crepe paper cheek. “I’ll be back in time for lunch.”

  “No rush,” Sylvie was quick to say. “There’s always so many handsome young men down by the beach. Put down the paintbrush, walk around a little.”

  She just couldn’t help herself. I tried not to groan, as I turned around to retrieve my bag and easel. She meant well. Still feeling the effects of a series of disastrous, quasi-relationships, I believed most men couldn’t be trusted as far as I could throw them. It was unlikely my solitary past time would put me in the line of fire, so I was safe, which was the way I preferred to stay.

  The easy walk of only a few blocks to the park was hampered by the awkward easel, but I managed. The weekday morning was quiet, offset by the occasional car. I knew the only people likely to be out were other artists, like myself, and a few locals, getting in their morning jogs. By afternoon though, things would pick up in this town, which had become more and more a destination for tourists.

  By the time I arrived at Heisler, I felt invigorated, ready to take on a new project. I was warm enough in my t-shirt and cut-offs. The few people I had spied were mostly bundled up in sweatshirts, and sweaters. Californians were often cold in any weather under seventy degrees. Sylvie said I’d inherited her Midwestern aptitude for colder temps and felt the air around me warming up.

  The breeze from the ocean, wafted over me. It was clean with a touch of sea scent, I never found unpleasant. Laguna Beach was a beautiful sight, there was no denying it. True, it was busier all the time. Somehow, the place had managed to retain a charming beach town feel, tucked away from the bustle of the larger cities.

  My favorite spot was mine for the taking. A patch of grass on the hillside overlooking the beach, which provided a fine view of the ocean waves crashing over the sand. A series of walking paths extended from my left and right. The well laid out paths allowed walkers to partake in many stunning vistas. Along the way, there were benches, tropical flowers, thoughtful sculptures, and even a gazebo, where an occasional wedding took place. My spot stood directly in front of a beloved sculpture. The fully extended whale seemed as if it had leapt in the air, bursting forth with its body pointed skyward, and its fins spread out to the side in a gesture which felt joyful.

  I’d been coming to this place, since I was a child, and it still felt special. When I was all set up, I dipped my brush into its first color of the day. Just as I was about to put brush to paper, I heard a familiar, yet alarming sound from the sand below.

  The bark of a seal was not unusual. This bark was clipped in a way which startled me and set my heart racing. I let the brush fall to the grass and ran to the steps leading down to the beach. From my vantage point, I could see a mass of gray, rolling back and forth in the shallow surf. The poor creature appeared to be caught in a net. I jumped my way down the concrete steps. Once at the bottom, I kicked off my flip flops and ran across the sand, my feet sinking with each step, slowing my progress.

  When I finally reached the animal, I dropped to my knees beside him. The tangled mess was not a net. It was a long, yellow ribbon, perhaps from a balloon. The ribbon was wound tightly around the seal and by the looks of it, painfully. Unsure of what to do, I placed a hand on the seal’s back. He flinched and immediately let loose another loud bark. I knew I had to remove the string, but how? It dawned on me I shouldn’t be touching a wild animal. They are unpredictable. I had no idea if seals were biters, and I didn’t want to find out. I quickly decided that letting him continue to be cut by the ribbon was not an option. Who knew how long it would take people from the rescue to get there. The seal could be cut to smithereens by the time anyone arrived.

  “You must be so scared, I’m going to try and help you. Poor baby.” I talked to him, soothingly, hoping to calm him.

  Seeing one of the ends of the ribbon, I placed my hand back where it was, humming softly. He flinched again, but otherwise let me touch him. Probably because he didn’t have much choice. The guy was in a real mess. A shadow fell on the seal, obstructing my view.

  “The humming is nice, but it’s not going to help much,” said a deep, male voice, over my head.

  I bit my lip, so as not to say something rude, and looked up. The guy was so handsome, I was a little startled. I don’t think I’d ever seen eyes that green before. It occurred to me, stupidly, that my hair was in a messy ponytail, and I had no makeup on.

  “I’m trying to keep him calm. Thank you for your input, but we’re fine, and you’re blocking the sun.” So much for not being rude. He moved next to me, crouching down.

  He ran his hands through short, dark hair and said, “You’re not fine. The ribbon needs to be cut, here.”

  The man with the amazing eyes withdrew a pocketknife from his running shoe and carefully cut through the loosest part of the dreadful ribbon. After that, it was easy work removing the rest.

  “You have a knife, in your shoe? That’s not sketchy.”

  “Nothing sketchy about it. A good Eagle Scout always carries a pocket knife. This poor guy is wounded. The ribbon cut into him in several places, deeply.” He pointed out the angry, red lacerations that crisscrossed the seal’s midsection.

  The seal made no effort to move back into the water and was now whimpering. Its pain obvious to any casual observer.

  “There is a sea life rescue, nearby. If we call them, they’ll come pick him up. I don’t have my phone on me.” No phone, no knife. I was no help at all.

  He reached into the back pocket of his athletic shorts, pulling out a cell phone. I wondered what else his clothing concealed, my eyes lingering a little too long on the back-pocket area of his shorts.

  The man looked up the rescue, then called the number. In no time, volunteers were on their way. I was slightly annoyed by how he managed to swoop in and save the day. Without a phone or a pocket knife, I wouldn’t have been able to do much. Still, it irked me for some reason.

  “They said to sit tight. Should be about twenty minutes. What’s your name?” He sat down in a more comfortable position.

  “Alice.” I hated how snarky I sounded but he still annoyed me.

  “Just Alice?” He flashed a dazzling smile. The way he looked, I’m sure he was quite used to swooning girls. I didn’t swoon.

  “Alice Archer.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Alice. I’m Elijah Brewer.” He looked directly into my eyes.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too.” This man had initially irritated me, but I had to admit, it was nice of him to help. You have to give credit, where credit is due.

  We sat in silence and waited for the arrival of the rescue. I was feeling more and more protective of the poor seal, the longer we sat there. A few bystanders had gathered around. I asked them to stand back, the seal was scared enough. Thankfully, we didn’t have to wait long. Once rescue personnel arrived, we stood back and let them do their work. I asked the lady in charge if I could ride along to the rescue. I was very worried about the little guy, who didn’t appear to be moving, or responding. She said I could, but it would take a while to ascertain how he would fare. I wanted to go anyway.

  “Why don’t we both go? I can drive, and we can come back later for your car. Mine is right at the top of the hill.” It would save me a lot of time to just ride over with him. If I drove, I would have to hoof it all the way back home and borrow my grandmother’s jeep.

  “Ok, sure. I walked here, so that works for me. I’ll ride with you, as long as you don’t mind waiting there for a bit.”

  He nodded. “Sure thing.”

  At the top of the hill, Elijah approached a sleek, black, vintage car. The car looked really expensive. I wasn’t a car person. But living in Laguna Beach, I knew a car like this was for the wealthy. It was all I could do to
not roll my eyes. Another male cliché.

  The rescue mission wasn’t far, and we soon pulled into the small, gravel parking lot. Another volunteer asked us to fill out some paperwork, which I set aside. Anytime there were papers to fill out, my instinct was to put it off as long as possible.

  Elijah and I meandered around for a bit, checking out the gift shop, and watching the nearly rehabilitated seals splashing in their pools. Reluctantly, I went back to the paperwork.

  After about thirty minutes, the lady from the beach came out to inform us they were doing all they could for the seal, but we really wouldn’t know his chances for another day or so.

  “Will I be able to come check on him?” I handed her the paperwork.

  “Come by tomorrow, we should know more, then.” Her sweet, caring smile inflated my hopes.

  Elijah and I walked back to the car. “My easel!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “I left my things in the park. I can’t believe I did that.” I could have cried. Taking deep breaths, I tried to calm my racing heart. I didn’t have the money to replace my easel.

  “I’ll get you back in no time.” He tried to alleviate my fears.

  We jumped in the car. I had a sinking feeling in my gut. I doubted my supplies would be waiting for me. With my funds so low, I wouldn’t be able to buy replacements. I also realized for the first time, I was riding with a stranger. Probably something I should have thought of before. The worry over my easel and paints, overtook every other consideration. All I cared about was getting back to my stuff.

  I didn’t give Elijah time to stop the car. As he slowed, I hopped out, then dashed into the park. Even from a few yards away, I could see my easel was gone. My heart sank. Nearing the space, I had occupied for all of ten minutes, my eyes swept the area. There was nothing to see, all my supplies were gone. My ancient, paint-splattered tote bag, holder of my paint and paintbrushes since childhood had also vanished.