aylabex

[aylabex]

Chapter 4 of The Cone Snail that Could just uplpaded. 👏👏👏

"Aliens abduct a normal family man not realizing he's a deranged secret closet killer with a body count in the hundreds. And now he's f*cking loose on their ship as the power goes out."

Inkitt.com/aylabex

[aylabex]

I'm drowning...

No, I've already drowned. I'm floating in the quiet of nothing and I can't feel or care because I'm all used up. Can't they see I havent come up for air in ages? Why am I still expected to carry on like I can swim and breathe and live.

[aylabex]

It was a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle, three times my typical size. Three hundred and fifty is the number I gravitate to; it’s the size I can open, finish, and clean up in one afternoon. But it was vacation, and I wanted to go big... or something equally foolish.

It was the third day, and the puzzle was almost done. There were only fifty pieces left, and they were those difficult ones that all look the same (a cloudless patch of sky) where all you can do is try pieces until one clicks into place. This isn’t the most stimulating part of a puzzle, but I don’t do puzzles for that. I do them to relax. They organize my mind, so to speak. 

I have two cats named Yaki and Soba. Their names started out as a joke and a love for Japanese noodles, but they stuck like a cooked noodle thrown at the kitchen ceiling.

Soba wanted the cupboard perch above where I was working, but Yaki was already there. Soba did not know this, and she wasn’t one to share. No, she would get up there, hiss loudly for at least fifteen seconds, and jump onto the table. She was surprisingly loud and heavy-pawed for a seven-pound cat, and there was no question she would mess up my puzzle. 

I gently redirected Soba three times, but she would not be thwarted. So I let her learn the hard way (I was the only one learning anything here), and it happened just as I imagined. When Soba landed on the table and part of the completed puzzle, the cat and a section of the puzzle slid off the side. The cat landed on her feet and stalked off with an angry flick of her tail. The puzzle pieces broke apart and landed in a heap.

I stared at the pile, all that hard work, and felt the excitement of almost being done dry up like a drop of water on a sunbaked rock.

Whew. So relaxing.

I gathered the pieces off the floor and got back to work, reminding myself that Soba didn’t mean to be an asshole. After a while, the puzzle was done. Almost. There was one empty spot, one piece left… and I didn’t know where it was. I was on my hands and knees, looking under the couch, the mantra of my mind spinning yarn: “It’s not a big deal. It’s not a big deal. It’s not a big deal.” 

That’s when Yaki decided to descend from her perch. 

Yaki is the bigger cat, eleven and a half pounds, but she made no noise as she jumped down, weaving through the three-tiered cat tree to reach the floor (using it for its intended purpose). She stayed off the table altogether, which I appreciated.

Yaki sat down by the door. She’s my talker, my talky-Yaki, but she didn’t make a sound, just sat and blinked at me. 

“Do you want to go out?”

Stare. Blink. Stare.

Have you noticed how huge cat’s eyes are, like, really noticed?

I went to open the door… and there was the puzzle piece. Yaki was sitting beside it, her tail curled to fence it in.

How did it get way over here?

Did this cat find my missing piece? 

Impossible.

I picked up my piece, and Yaki sauntered away, tail in the air.

I feel like God was trying to teach me something here, or maybe one or both of my cats was (and really, are cats not little gods?)

But what cosmic lesson am I supposed to learn?

“Would this person/creature/diety help me fix a puzzle they broke?” 

Or better yet—

“Would this person/creature/diety help me fix a puzzle they did NOT break?”

Or maybe I’m just reading into it. Yaki couldn’t have known I was looking for the piece or where it was, right? And Soba is a dramatic, impatient, unobservant, heavy-footed cat, and those are a pawful of personality traits bound to create chaos and broken puzzles.

Besides, Soba doesn’t have thumbs; how was she supposed to help me fix the puzzle?

(But did she really have to be angrier about it than I was?)

Ah, the mystery that is living with cats.

[aylabex]

Has anybody else gotten to a path in their healing journey where you're glad it's over? I feel a lot of gratitude and relief lately that it isn't happening anymore, and life, while still difficult, is at least manageable. I'm sure the anger and sadness will continue to hit me at inopportune moments, but it's nice to have these little pockets of relief. I hope they stick around.

[aylabex]

The Cone Snail that Could

Chapter 3

The gated community hosts three dozen humans, a handful of dogs, and a plethora of cats, not to mention the innumerable rodents, birds, and (gasp) insects (nobody admits to those). It also includes a complimentary lifetime membership to the nearby golf club. All the houses (between eight and ten thousand square feet) look alike, with similar styles, colors, three-car garages, and giant yards that no one ever walks on. Even with all the precise planning and feeling of sameness, small details show how the owners keep score. 

One house has a fountain in front of it. Three six-foot-tall saguaros dribble water out of their uppermost tips to cascade down their arms and dampen the prickly pear, barrel, and cholla waiting beneath (all crafted from semi-rare rock). Another house hosts a five-tiered rock and succulent garden; its highest peak reaches above the neighbor’s stone saguaro. Another front yard is bare, except for the luscious grass, which is cut so precise that it looks like one whole unit instead of billions of singular blades. (It’s the greenest grass in all of Phoenix, the owner boasts.) Another mansion displays a small lake surrounded with artfully arranged gravel; grey, tan, and red are placed precisely to make uniform, southwestern patterns (A real artist comes out every Monday to touch up the spots that rain or wind might have disturbed). The lake is made complete with shiny orange and white fish (The fish are restocked yearly, poor things. The water plants that would provide cover from the herons and raccoons are missing for a more minimal look).

In the most prominent house at the end of the main roadway (largest by four hundred and fifty square feet, which is no small number, let me tell you), a husband and wife stand in the foyer.

Read more at: https://www.inkitt.com/stories/1209661/chapters/3

https://www.inkitt.com/stories/1209661/chapters/3

[aylabex]

CHAPTER 2

The apartment is small and clean. Tidy. Mattie’s son calls it sparse. Even so, he is a good son, worrying about her. But Mattie doesn’t need much at eighty-six years old. She has food in the fridge, a bible on the bookshelf, and a mustard-yellow coat hanging by the door with only one patch (on the right elbow). Mattie has what she needs and needs what she has.

Except for the music.

Mattie knows it’s music now. But the first time? The first time, she couldn’t figure out what those demonic noises were, but she knew it was coming from the neighbor above her.

Knocking on his door without invitation worried Mattie. (Mattie knew it was a HE because if it were a SHE, Mattie wouldn’t have to trudge up the stairs to ask her to be more conscientious of her neighbors.)  Maybe he was building something. Mattie knew men could get testy when you interrupted one of their little projects—nothing like a full-grown man throwing a tantrum. But in her experience, desserts usually cooled their engines.

Mattie carried a plate of brownies just in case.

[aylabex]

CHAPTER 1

People connect like a moth to flame. Each has a role to play: the one who returns and the one who burns. Bit by bit, they will tear each other apart until both are less than rabid animals, with nothing more to give than snaps and snarls.

That was Helen’s thinking as a young twenty-something-year-old. It was her thinking as a young thirty-something-year-old. As a young forty-something-year-old, it is still her thinking. But Mort is a rare one—an outlier. And Helen knows those exist.

It is a bigger house than Helen ever expected to live in; her closest dream had been a one-room cabin nestled between ancient pines. This house has two stories, a tan stucco shell, and three air conditioners. The air conditioners are necessary in Phoenix on days like today when the outside thermometer reads one hundred and fourteen degrees Fahrenheit.

Palm trees grow in the backyard alongside a fenced swimming pool heated by the Arizona sun, a shed-turned-man-cave sits along the back fence, and a round fire pit made of interwoven bricks is tucked into the western corner by several saguaros. The firepit bricks were crafted with white sand, crushed shells, and a special ingredient known only to the maker. A top brick is missing.

Inside the house, the kitchen walls are a light and soft yellow. That’s where they are gathered: Helen’s little family of Mort, Kyle, and Carlie—another thing she never expected to have.

Several minutes before the bug incident, Mort and Helen were baking chocolate chip cookies alone. The timer ding-a-linged, and the two moved into action with a dancer’s choreography. Mort (wearing light blue oven mitts) removed the hot tray from the oven and wove around his wife. Helen (wearing no oven mitts) held a cold tray with one-inch globs of cookie dough as she twirled past her husband. Helen shut the oven door just as Mort set his sheet on the granite counter. Mort twisted the face of a white timer, and Helen picked up a plastic spatula.  

“Mort?” Helen used the spatula to scrape a hot cookie off the tray and onto a cooling rack. She scraped a second cookie. The timer ticked and tacked.

“Yes?”

“I need to nag at you.”

“How lucky for you,” Mort said, “that I am unbothered by nagging.” He used a spoon to scoop cookie dough, rolled it into a ball, and set it on a clean cookie sheet. “But that is the wrong word.”

“What would the right word be?”

“Ten words: You are bringing up concerns so we can solve them.”

“How about five words? You are such a nerd.”

“As long as I am your nerd.” Mort washed his hands and dried them on a towel before taking the spatula from Helen and setting it on the counter. Mort drew her hands together, brought them up to his chest, and enfolded her long fingers in his own. “What is it?”

Read the rest on Inkitt, if you want. :)

[aylabex]

Trying out different ways of posting, new to this posting on social media thing :)

[aylabex]

The Cone Snail That Could

Hello, lovely and strange humans and cats of Tumblr.

I have never really posted on social media or shared my stories before. After about ten years of "closet" writing, I feel like it's time to share, and I'm nervous. I don't expect a lot of people will want to read my stuff, but I want to start overcoming my anxiety about putting my work out there.

My plan is to post a chapter every Sunday, I found a (free) writing website called Inkitt.com that I like the format of. I'll upload my chapters there and post the link here.

I have the first two chapters up so far, and if you do end up reading it (because you are kind and amazing and probably have nothing better to do), I would love some feedback. Please be gentle, I'd like to grow as a writer, not have my writer spirit crushed.

The link to my author page is inkitt.com/aylabex

Here are several starting paragraphs so you don't have to leave Tumblr to read some of The Cone Snail That Could:

People connect like a moth to flame. Each has a role to play: the one who returns and the one who burns. Bit by bit, they will tear each other apart until both are less than rabid animals, with nothing more to give than snaps and snarls.

That was Helen’s thinking as a young twenty-something-year-old. It was her thinking as a young thirty-something-year-old. As a young forty-something-year-old, it is still her thinking. But Mort is a rare one—an outlier. And Helen knows those exist.

It is a bigger house than Helen ever expected to live in; her closest dream had been a one-room cabin nestled between ancient pines. This house has two stories, a tan stucco shell, and three air conditioners. The air conditioners are necessary in Phoenix on days like today when the outside thermometer reads one hundred and fourteen degrees Fahrenheit. 

Palm trees grow in the backyard alongside a fenced swimming pool heated by the Arizona sun, a shed-turned-man-cave sits along the back fence, and a round fire pit made of interwoven bricks is tucked into the western corner by several saguaros. The firepit bricks were crafted with white sand, crushed shells, and a special ingredient known only to the maker. A top brick is missing.

Inside the house, the kitchen walls are a light and soft yellow. That’s where they are gathered: Helen’s little family of Mort, Kyle, and Carlie—another thing she never expected to have.

Several minutes before the bug incident, Mort and Helen were baking chocolate chip cookies alone. The timer ding-a-linged, and the two moved into action with a dancer’s choreography. Mort (wearing light blue oven mitts) removed the hot tray from the oven and wove around his wife. Helen (wearing no oven mitts) held a cold tray with one-inch globs of cookie dough as she twirled past her husband. Helen shut the oven door just as Mort set his sheet on the granite counter. Mort twisted the face of a white timer, and Helen picked up a plastic spatula.  

“Mort?” Helen used the spatula to scrape a hot cookie off the tray and onto a cooling rack. She scraped a second cookie. The timer ticked and tacked.

“Yes?”

“I need to nag at you.” 

“How lucky for you,” Mort said, “that I am unbothered by nagging.” He used a spoon to scoop cookie dough, rolled it into a ball, and set it on a clean cookie sheet. “But that is the wrong word.”

“What would the right word be?”

“Ten words: You are bringing up concerns so we can solve them.”

“How about five words? You are such a nerd.”

“As long as I am your nerd.” Mort washed his hands and dried them on a towel before taking the spatula from Helen and setting it on the counter. Mort drew her hands together, brought them up to his chest, and enfolded her long fingers in his own. “What is it?”

***Link to the rest of the chapter: https://www.inkitt.com/stories/action/1209661/chapters/1