The Writings of Samantha Peters

Fictional short stories, poetry, and short essays written by Austin-based writer, Samantha Peters. All opinions are exclusively hers alone.

Monday, May 13, 2013

The first Stella Malone book is available for purchase!

I decided to attempt the path of self-publishing and with the help of amazon.com's createspace, I have published my first book. The Stella Malone series is geared towards 2nd-5th grade readers and are meant to have a fun, "read-in-a-weekend" feel to them. These books do not have a chronological order. A reader can pick up any Stella Malone book at any time and enjoy the series. I hope to have at least 5 of them finished by August 2013, but for now, here is the first one. Enjoy! https://www.createspace.com/4278456

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

At the Funeral for Debbie Downer



"At the Funeral for Debbie Downer"

Copyright 2013 by Samantha Peters. All rights reserved.

Chatty Cathy bounced on the balls of her feet, attempting to mask her antsiness as an reaction to the cold, but it wasn't really that cold. She had bundled up anyway, since the only black clothes she owned were scarves and jackets and thick wool pants. All the other women there were wearing modest dresses, but Chatty Cathy wasn't a fan of dresses. Nosy Nancy had pointed out to her right before the funeral started that, yet again, she was the only woman in pants. "What's up with that?" she asked, completely forgetting about what decade they were all living in. "Why do I never see you in anything that shows your shape?"
   Chatty Cathy had begun to explain that her new workout and diet regime wasn't going well, on account of the sloppy directions and cardboard-tasting food, but Nosy Nancy had already moved on to Picky Pete's demands to sit on the left side of the coffin, and not on the right, because it was bad luck or something. Chatty Cathy was not offended. Picky Pete was like that last piece of thick dark chocolate at the bottom of the candy bowl, and Nosy Nancy had zero willpower.
  They were all standing there now, a small but tight-knit group of friends, gathering together to honor their dearly-departed friend. All except for Tardy Tammy, who so far was running ten minutes late, despite Cathy telling her an earlier time. She wanted to go ahead and start, because Picky Pete's face was already a deep shade of furious rose and she knew how hard he was to come back from a temper tantrum, but Polite Petunia requested they wait. 
   "I know Tammy has time-telling difficulties, but she deseves to pay her respects as well as any of us," Petunia pointed out. "You would want us to wait for you, if you were late."
  "Maybe," Cathy said, not wanting to commit to answering that. "I just have the perfect eulogy ready and I want to strike while the iron is hot, you know? And we can't have Pete throwing a tantrum."
  "Maybe," Petunia repeated, equally not wanting to commit to an answer. "So let's just  give her another five or ten minutes, how's that?"
  "I wonder where she is," Nosy Nancy said, half-muttering but mostly loud enough for everyone to hear. "This is a funeral for Heaven's sake! What, was she in a car accident? I hope so, I mean I hope she's okay, naturally I wish her no harm, but that's the only excuse you could have to be late to a funeral. I mean let's have some tact, for crying out loud. No offense, Tim."
  "None taken," Tacky Tim replied, adjusting his rainbow suspenders.
  "I think this is just a particularly difficult time for her," Polite Petunia said.
  "It's difficult for all of us," Chatty Cathy interjected. "Death is a difficult thing. I even say so in my speech. Should I go ahead and have a practice run, to make sure everything runs smoothly once Tammy does appear? I'd hate for there to be any more interruptions. A friend of mine once went to a funeral that last six hours because of all the hold-ups. Father of three, can you imagine? The littlest one didn't even have a clue what was going on. He just say there in his little suit, staring wide-eyed at the casket, not comprehending why his father just didn't get up and laugh about it all. Things like that scar children for life. That poor little boy will probably have mental problems. I'm just so happy there aren't any kids here."
  "Deb didn't want any," Nosy Nancy said sadly. "She kept on saying she did, but that getting pregnant was so hard, and then she thought her baby would die of SIDS or choke on his own vomit or something."
  "Oh, that poor dear," sniffled Petunia.
  "Well all you have to do is lay a baby on his back with no blankets and whatnot in the crib," Picky Pete said. "And as far as vomit goes, just don't overfeed your baby and they won't vomit. I have raised five excellent models of decency and not one of them ever vomited. Not once."
  Nosy Nancy checked her watch. "This is ridiculous. Should I call her? I should call her, you know, just to make sure she's okay at least."
  But before anyone could respond to that, a loud honk broke the calm wind around the graveyard and they all turned around to see Tardy Tammy speeding up in her little black Geo, waving her hand out the window and calling out, "Hold up! Hold up! I'm here!"
  "It's about time," muttered Picky Pete.
  It was still another three minutes before they began, because Tammy hadn't put on her shoes yet or brushed her hair and then she left her engine running and had to go back and turn off her car, then she realized the lights were on and she had to go back again, and Nosy Nancy wondered why she had her lights on in the first place, since it was a rather sunny day. Finally, Tammy took her place next to Picky Pete and Chatty Cathy began.
  "Time is a tricky thing. We seem to have so much of it we don't know what to do with ourselves, yet before we know it, it's gone. We must practice the art of saving time, of using it, of not wasting it away on worry or regret, because this is the only way to live life to the fullest. Our dear friend, Debbie Downer, never had the chance to do that. The trials and tribulations of life weighed down on our dear friend, despite constant pleading from those of us who loved her to relax and let go. But, for every gray cloud there is a silver lining, and in Debbie's case, she always remembered those tiny details the rest of us would forget. It was Debbie who called me every morning when it rained to remember my umbrella. It was Debbie who would send me emails two weeks before my car registration was due. It was Debbie who saved us from that roller coaster catastrophe and it was Debbie who stopped us all from drinking too much every New Year's Eve. Now that we are without her, we may have fun, yes. We may relax more, true. But without Debbie we are now sitting ducks, just waiting for whatever mishap of chaos life has in store for us. So it is with a heavy heart and saddened soul that I commit Debbie Downer to the ground, and God help us live without her, for we will need all the help we can get."
  A rumble of "amens" coursed through the small crowd, and one by one Debbie's friends tossed fake roses into the hole, and left their solemn friend behind.

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Cat Parker Sings "America the Beautiful"

Author's note: This story is copyright Samantha Peters, 2012, all rights reserved. 

I wrote this story in about 20 minutes, but it has been in my head for 18 years. 

                             "Cat Parker Sings 'America the Beautiful'"


We are sprawled out on the deck with the stars above us, and the waves jostling the jet ski under us. I can feel the vibrations of the wood when the jet ski hits the dock, over and over again, powerless to stop its own abuse. The fireworks have not started yet; “dusk” is a relative term open to interpretation. But I am not too concerned about it. The heat of the day has burned off and although there is no breeze, we are comfortable in our shorts and bathing suits.
                Catherine, who likes to be called Cat but I call her both interchangeably, says, “This makes three years, doesn’t it?”
                “It’s not four?”
                “I don’t think so; the first time we came out here we were twelve.”
                “No we were eleven.”
                She props herself up on her elebow. “Twelve. I’m certain of it because we talked about how happy we were that we tested out of reading.”
                I frown. “Did we really talk about school up here? God we were dorks.”
                “Well we were eleven, we hadn’t discovered boys yet.”
                I blink then look over at her, but she’s turned her attention to the sky and either missed her mistake, or is dismissive of it. I go to argue but then I realize it doesn’t really matter, and I look up at the sky too.
                “There’s Casseopia,” she points out. “And Ursa Major over there.”
                All I see are twinkling dots but I nod. “Yeah, totally.”
                “You can even see the twins still if you look over that way.”
                “Yep. Cool.”
                She stretches. “So how are you holding up, now that it’s been a couple months?”
                There’s a tone in her voice, one desperate to be casual but dying to get to it. She can’t quite mask that she’s been thinking about this for awhile. “It sucks,” I say.
                “Well sure, I bet it still stings a bit… but we’ve still got two years, and you know what they say… plenty of fish and whatnot.”
                “I don’t want any other fish. I want Justin.”
                She glares at me. “You must come to the realization that Justin knows that wiggling worm is attached a hook. He’s swimming right on by, and you’re sitting there on a boat like a jackass. Hook another fish, eat it, and get over it.”
                “I can’t, Cat. I’m in love.”
                “Pfft. You’re fifteen. You don’t know what love is.”
                “You’re fifteen too!”
                “So?”
                “So you have to be thirty-five to have the privledge of telling other people their experiences are invalid. It’s like a law or something.”
                “Okay fine. But seriously, do you really think you’re in love?”
                I shrug. “All I know is that I’ve never felt this way before, and it hurts like a bitch. Isn’t love supposed to hurt? And anyways if this isn’t love, I sure as fuck don’t want to experience the real thing.”
                Cat nods. “Okay, I can deal with that. Maybe you shouldn’t worry about the other fish then. Maybe just chill for a bit.”
                I didn’t want to tell her that I couldn’t chill, because she wouldn’t really understand. So I change the subject. “How are things with Mamma Emily?”
                Cat snorts. She always likes my nicknames. “Well she’s finally stopped crying every time I enter the room, so that’s a plus.”
                “Hey, there you go. That’s something.”
                “Yeah sure. It only took her nine months. At this rate she’ll start talking to me right about as I graduate.”
                “Well at least she acknowledges your presence.”
                “Well yeah she does, I guess. I mean she ain’t that bad really. She’s a hell of a lot better than the last one.” By last one she means her mother, but neither of us say this out loud. “You wanna know something funny though?”
                “Sure.”
                “You remember Miss Oden, the cafeteria lady at Fairview?”
                “Ha, how can I forget? The way she sloshed those mashed potatoes out of the ice cream scoop with that scowl on her face… and you never were quite sure what was in the fish fillet…”
                “Well up until Mamma Emily, I thought Miss Oden was hands down the worst cook on the planet. But I tell you what, I’d take a plateful of Miss Oden’s mush over anything Mamma Emily cooks in a heartbeat.” I laugh, but she waves her hand and says, “That ain’t the funny part. The funny part is, I eat every last crumb. I mean I practically lick my plate clean. This woman burns cereal and I gobble it up like a starving Ethiopian child.”
                I frown. “If she’s such a bad cook, why don’t you just fix yourself something?”
                Cat shakes her head. “That’s what I just can’t figure out. You know I’m a decent cook- I’ve had to be, right? And I don’t mind it. But I just keep on letting her feed me revolting grilled cheese sandwitches and watery spaghetti. And sometimes I even eat seconds. I don’t know why. I must be insane.”
                I look at Catherine and she looks at the stars, rolling this little paradox over in her head, trying to make sense of it. It is funny to me too, but not in the way it’s funny to her. What’s funny to me is that she doesn’t see the obvious reason why she eats Mamma Emily’s food. Why doesn’t Cat realize that the woman could serve her fired turds and she’d scarf it, because it’s not about the food. It’s about someone doing something just for her; someone is finally treating her like a child and she’s starving for that.
                But I keep my mouth shout and say, “You probably are.”
                Just then the first firework launches and Cat’s on her feet. She does this every year. Her hand’s on her heart and she gazes up at the sky as the fireworks ignite the sky in eye-piercing rainbows. She starts to sing “America the Beautiful” in a soft but earnest voice. She never says anything about America any other time of the year, but for these few moments every three hundred and sixty-five days, Cat Parker is the most patriotic American on the planet.
                When it’s over she plops down and says, “I’ve done that every year since I was four.”
                “Yes, and every year you tell me that.”
                “This is the first year that Mother didn’t sing with me.”
                I’m surprised at the comment and I look at her, but she’s still looking up at the sky, as if the fireworks are not finished. I’m a bit ashamed. I should have sang with her. That’s what a good friend would have done.

Friday, January 20, 2006

Slavery

"Slavery"

They knocked me out
Tied up my ankles and wrists and
thrusted me into the box again.

I escaped once but now I can't remember how

Its just too small to stand up
but too narrow to sit down
and the waves are rolling me up
and down
and I can't throw up what I've already
swallowed.

I escaped once but now I can't remember how

There's tiny crevices between
the wood,
I see you smiling in your lavish crowd
You're watching me and crying
but you're still not letting me out.

Somewhere the horse is laughing,
I'm right under her thumb,
She was right along and you were wrong
You didn't stand your ground.

So this is the price I pay for you
Sleeping here inside my box
You've got the crowbar in your back pocket but
You're still not letting me out.

Friday, September 09, 2005

The Whale


"The Whale"


The moon overhead hangs like a harpoon
In the deep, exasporated air-
out comes the sprout,
shooting with white,
And the whale emerges crying;
For miles and miles

She moans her siren song.


Thursday, June 02, 2005

A Room with a Gun


"A Room with a Gun"

Again the shallow cold breeze
Gathers up in the place that I breathe
dwelling, dwindling, six sullen sounds
I speak up with words that drown.

She painted a vase with hours and sweat
Picked roses from dawn and baby's breath
Glass kept out the disasters and lovers and truth
Inside all she felt was abused.

I came to retrieve a gift I had passed
Under the tree with the papers unwrapped
I almost said no, and with time it would stop
But for me dreams always turn over to thoughts.

She's sorry she led you all the way here
Even thought she warned you it's best to stay clear
And now we're stuck staring into the drain
I passed on my way over, saw she's down it again.

Today I drink coffee, tonight I will thrust
All that comes out of me excluding my lust
I'm glad it was taught of me when I was young but
Fate still put us together in a room with a gun.