Joy in the Lemon Things

I could hear its growling from outside the door. The hairs on my neck stood up the moment the elevator announced the creature’s arrival. Lazy thing didn’t even take the stairs. I barricaded the door with a desk chair, the ironing board, my suitcase, pool noodles, an untouched bathrobe, and some sandy snorkeling kits. I sacrificed the two towel swans from the bed and shoved them in the cracks of my makeshift wall to block out sound. The less it heard the more chance I had of smashing its face in with the iron I cradled in my arms. I picked up a complimentary chocolate and freed from its tin foil home, popped it in my mouth, and waited. There was a jiggle at the doorknob. I didn’t know monsters like that could work knobs. From my experience they only knew how to destroy. I mulled over my chances of escaping out the porthole, but I was on the tennis squad in my youth, not swim team, so I took my chances with the iron. The monster’s attempts with the doorknob died as it decided be...

The night was cold. Well what kind of description is that? The night was cold. Cold could mean anything. It could mean the backside of an alligator, dripping with swamp water. Course if you know how that feels, you probably aren’t alive to tell the tale. Cold could sketch the image of a 15-year-old girl’s piercing glare at you as you playfully touch the shoulder of her chosen. Cold could mean the instant glee that shoots up from your hands to your brain when you hold a chilled Coke (advertised? I wish). Cold could mean the pure palliative peace that pulls you to plunge into your best friend’s pool, escaping summer’s choking grip. Cold could mean professing your feelings to your chosen and he or she or it treats you like the plastic bag Katy Perry always said you felt like. Cold could trigger your brain back to those nights when you snuggled close to your siblings and parents as your dad told tall-tales that only now do you question their validity. Cold could describe the first snow y...