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Let’s start by soaking my feet. Nice, hot water with tea-tree epsom salt. It’s so interesting how much the temperature of the foot dictates the temperature of the entire body. Sometimes, if I am wrapped in a blanket, I must stick one or both feet out in order to regulate my body’s temperature. When I am cold, simply warming my feet warms my body. As of right now, I am a little cold but I feel pretty good because of my feet being soaked.

The foot creates a complex wholeness of a higher development of the human existence. Each individual toe creates a unique experience for the ankles of the foot. Furthering, the ark of the foot enhances the heel of the toe, which includes a chicken noodle soup with a side of soda. Subsequently, it rains and then it clears out.

The smell of vomit embedded in the wool bag over her hand kindled the anger deep within her soul. Unable to see what will happen next, “move forward,” the executioner said. How much longer do I have left, she thought. Blood still flowed from her right hand that was cut off earlier, no longer feeling the pain as her anger boiled over.

“Why do I only feel rage? This is not how I wanted to die,” she said.

“Okay, uhh what is going on here? Where is she? Who is she and why is she being executed? And they cut her hand off?”

“Mom, can I please finish the story before you start asking a million questions?” said the young creative writing student.

“Okay, okay, you just started off really weird, you know. First, you were talking about feet and chicken noodle soup and now you’re talking about blood and rage and a woman’s hand was cut off,” said the mother of a young creative writing student.

“Yes, that is the flow of an excellent writer.

The reader must never know what is really going on in the story, they don’t know my foot code,” said the student.

“Oh, okay,” said the mom.

Now there was this situation of the horses. People are completely unaware that horses are not only plotting to take over the world but they are the real master minds of secret intelligence. Throughout history, wars were won and lost because of the secret intel operation of the horses. It is needless to say that horses be snitching.

“Horses be snitching? Did you make that up?” said the mom.

“No, I have observed for myself how they get really close together, face to butt, and then boom they be straight snitching.”

“What?” said the mom.

“I am telling you, next time you see a couple of horses, stop and observe them. You will see what 1 am talking about.”

“They be snitching?”

“Precisely.”

Now, the horses are indeed trying to take over the world but there is another secret organization at play here. The socks. Everyone has experienced the secret life of socks. They show up when they want and then they disappear. Sometimes, they disappear forever. Where do they go someone may ask. But I tell you, they go down to the underground. I have out smarted those sneaky pieces of cotton/polyester with 2% spandex, by only buying one pack of socks at a time. So, when they try to go do secret missions, I know it. And when they come back, I know it.

“Hmm. So, how can I protect myself against the GIAH (central intelligence agency of horses) and the underground socks when they take over the world?” said the mom.

“Yes, Mom. Yes. Now you are understanding the purpose of a writer. The reader may never know the dangers that they may face if the writer does not create the scenario for them to think outside of the natural.”

It’s about three pages in, my feet soaking water has gotten cold and I am getting hungry. I think it is a good time for a cheese snack.

Colby jack cheese to be exact. The minor details in a story are really important, as writing experts say. The story must have conflict; my feet are wet but I must get to the fridge to extract the cheese. I will wait.

*

I am afraid of what I see in the mirror.

Somehow, I am able to see beyond the surface of my skin. I can see my breakfast digesting and I can see that I’ll need to poop around 12:30pm. I try not to look at my face too often, I hate to see mucus moving around in my sinuses. Sometimes though, I do take a peek at my brain. Only for a few seconds until it freaks me out. Being tall, dark and handsome is helpful with this condition. Everyone thinks I have style but truly I’m just a-

“Just a what?” the mom said.

“That’s it. That’s the end of the story.”

“You can’t just end a story like that. You have to give the reader more.”

“No, I don’t have to give the reader anything.”

“You can’t just disregard the reader.”

“Yes, I can. Forget the reader, they don’t know me.

“What about me? I am the reader and I do know you.”

“Well, Mom, you are required by law to like everything that I write, so don’t trip.”

“I’m not even going go there with you, continue your lil story” said the mom.

Okay, cheese break for real this time.

“Here is Noirla before I found out she was a serial killer.”

“What do you mean before you found out she was a serial killer? Didn’t you create this character?” the mom said.

“Yes, but with creative writing, you can have this idea about a character but when you start writing about them, they can change. I had no idea that Noirla was crazy and a serial killer. And I didn’t know what she did with the bodies until someone in my workshop mentioned it.”

“So, the characters tend to create their own stories?”

“Right, they are the ones that are crazy, not me,” the young creative writing student said.

*

“You know I don’t like those so called friends of yours. I don’t know why you just bow down to Madam ‘the Whoremonger’ Tarr and ‘Royal Whore-monger’ Emba Rex.” Else said. “Especially, Emba Rex. You are literally going to follow that nonbinary dog to hell.”

“Else, please. Just because they’re not your friends doesn’t mean you can just talk about them any kind of way.” Noirla said watching the ice melt in her soda.

“Noirla, it is because I love you that I’ve held back all of these years but you’re almost out of the door. If I don’t let you know now, I’ll never be able to say it.”

“Say what?”

“I hate those mother-bleepers. I hate that you’re dying with them. I wish you would just do it on your own. Let the heifer and the donkey die to-gether.”

“Else…”

“You know how Madam Tarr acts so sweet in her little bougie house, with her bougie momma and back-boneless daddy. That whoremonger took two of my girlfriends! Noirla, I swear to the universe, if it wasn’t for you I would have killed her myself since she wants to die so damn bad.”

‘I thought you were over that?’

“Over it? Noirla, you know me better thar that. There is no amount of forgiveness or getting over anything in me. As much as I hate Madam Tarr, Emba Rex is the one I would kill slowly.”

“Oh my universe.”

“No, they want to die, I would gladly kill them for free.”

“What did Emba Rex do to you?”

“Whew chile, do you really want to go there right now?”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“Pause, why does this ‘Else’ sound like somebody I know?” the mom said.

“Well, Mom, with creative writing, it is said to write what you know. So, I wrote what I knew.”

“Hmm. You better not let her read this. You know your sister and you know my rules, y’all not little girls anymore. Y’all come in my house with drama, I’m kicking y’all out.”

“But…”

“But nothing, continue your story.” the mom said.

I try not to eat more than one stick of cheese per day. I do get tempted from time to time to eat more than one, but I usually do not give in, I am strong. I can resist the cheese.

“Mom, where are you going?

“I’m going get me a snack, I need all of my energy dealing with you and these stories,” the mom said on her way to the kitchen. “This girl here is crazy but I love her, “she said to herself.

“Okay, I have my popcorn and I am ready.”

“Okay, this next story is what I call a true classic, it’s called ‘Rendezvous Point.””

“Oooh, sounds fun.”

“Fair warning, this story is inspired by the time you and dad got caught role playing.”

“What?!”

Except from Eve’s Apple – A Collection of Things