Author: Casey Jane

Written: on my couch

Powered by: Ramen

Inspired by: “Feel Good Classical” playlist on Spotify

What’s up y’all this is Teagan, your Peloton instructor for today. I’m here to get you movin’ and groovin’ so saddle up ‘cause we’re going on a ride! 

Alright fam, I know times have been tough lately with this pandemic, and then the recession, and then the stay at home orders and then the shootings and the protests and the killer bees and all. But remember that we are all in this together, hell even the post office is struggling, we are all struggling and that is OH-KAY! Because through the struggle we can succeed, and if that sounds like a load of shit, just pedal a little harder. 

Sorry team, I’m not actually allowed to curse on the bike, so let’s just start over. I don’t usually get personal, but I’ll let you know that I’m having an off day here. I know it doesn’t look like it but that’s because my studio apartment’s been transformed into a workout set and there’s Vaseline on my teeth to keep me smiling! 

But sometimes it’s hard to keep up the façade, you know, and I feel like I can be real with y’all. I mean, after filming 153 new rides in the six months of lockdown, you kind of owe me one. So I’ll fill you in on how my life has been going. 

Again, it may seem great from the other side of the screen, staring at my toned belly and ever-so-slightly sculpted shoulders. But don’t let that thriving plant in the corner lead you to believe that I’ve got it all together. Actually, my boyfriend broke up with me last night on FaceTime, he said if we can’t see each other in person then what’s the point? Also, I used to supplement my goal of becoming a fitness icon working part time at night clubs but I can’t do that anymore and Peloton pays like shit so I have literally no income right now! And you may not know it because this lighting purposefully washes me out, but I’m BLACK bitch, and all this shit right now is really too much for me. 

Ok, sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m really just not myself today. Whew, let’s all just take a deep breath and wind down the intensity in our minds to CRANK UP THE INSTENSITY ON OUR BIKES, that’s right people let’s get moving! Pump it, really push, give it all you’ve got, go so hard until all you can think about is the burn in your legs, forget about the fact that your credit card bill is due in two days, forget about the fact that you haven’t had sex in half a year, forget about the fact that you’re starting to feel a little bit sick, it’s probably just a cold, forget about your life, forget about yourself, and just —

Fuck. My fucking pedal broke. These things are a real piece of shit, you know that? This whole thing, this whole LIFE is a real piece of shit, you know that? That plant over there, it’s not even real. It’s PLASTIC bitch, PLASTIC.

You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna get my ass onto an actual bike and go on an actual bike ride. Outside. Where the plants are REAL! And I’m not gonna get the sweat pouring or pump up the volume or grind it out or whatever else the fuck I’ve been saying on this hunk of junk for the past year. I’m just gonna ride, and honestly, I don’t give a fuck what you assholes do in the meantime. Teagan OUT! 

Written: three guesses where

Powered by: chips & queso

Inspired by: my intense desire for it to be October already

Because no one wanted to purchase a Zoom account, we only had forty-five minutes to conduct the séance. After six months of separation no one really wanted to have another virtual game night, so when J suggested it, we agreed. 

A Google search on “how to do a séance” gave us all we needed. C didn’t have a round table in her apartment, so she sat on a the floor with her laptop perched on an overturned circular laundry basket. Candles and food were recommended to entice spirits looking for warmth and sustenance, so A ordered Chinese and T plugged in a strand of Christmas lights. I lit a joint from the flame of a citronella candle I found in my garage. 

We tossed around a few possible ghosts for our outreach: T’s grandparents were both dead, and J remembered some kids who died in a drunk driving accident from his high school. I put up a strong case for my childhood goldfish but ultimately we decided on Bob Dylan, because we figured he wouldn’t be mad about it and rip out our guts or anything. 

Some resources say that the number of participants should be divisible by three, so we decided A’s cat Johannes should also participate. He protested, but we still counted him. We dimmed the lights, our faces bleached in the glow of our laptops. Everyone put a hand onto their screens, it was the most contact we had had in weeks. We started to chant. 

“Our beloved Bob Dylan, we bring you gifts from life into death. Commune with us, Bob, and move among us.” 

We kept chanting until C said, “I just heard something move. Downstairs.” We asked if the spirit was Bob Dylan, and waited. We asked again. C started to talk, but the connection glitched and her face froze on the screen. T got a little freaked when C dropped the call, but we knew she was the easiest to spook. A few moments later C’s video popped back up. 

“Sorry, it was just my dish washer,” she told us. A had started eating some of the spirit’s takeout, so we waited for him to finish his egg roll, and then chanted again. 

“Our beloved Bob Dylan, we bring you gifts from life into death. Commune with us, Bob, and move among us.” 

The knock on my wall was so loud that I was sure they all heard it through the speakers, but they kept chanting. “You guys,” I said, “Something just hit the wall.” 

“I don’t hear anything,” T said, “Stop fucking with us.” 

“Shut up,” J said, “You’re going to scare him off.” 

In the silence we all could hear it.  It didn’t sound like the air conditioner kicking on. It didn’t sound like the neighbors moving around. It sounded like Bob was right there on the other side, knocking to let me know he could hear me. 

And when Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door started to play, we all just sat and listened. 

Written: while researching odd jobs and secretly wishing I was good at science and therefore could spend my days creating new flavors for Ben & Jerry’s

Powered by : Ben & Jerry’s

Inspired by: Ben & Jerry’s

Two chemists meet in a bar. He offers to buy her a drink, and they take turns dissecting the various flavor components inside of it, the ingredients, the odor molecules. She is a flavorist, aided by a PhD in biochemistry and a lifelong sweet tooth. He, a fragrance specialist, splicing up the perfect blends for shampoos and soaps. 

On their first date they visit the botanical garden, and he can name the flowers by scent, even with her fingers covering his eyes. On their fifth date she can list the chemical makeup of his cologne from kissing his neck. Their wedding cake is acai and brown sugar, their baby smells like mossy wood. 

And most days when they return home saturated in the tastes and smells of living–the grape jelly and honeydew and sweat and cinnamint and praline and orange peel and jackfruit and eucalyptus–they meet in the shower. They brush their teeth and scrub beneath their fingernails and when they kiss one another, when they lean in close, all they can sense is the water. 

Written: while listening to the rain

Powered by: a half-scoop of pre-workout that’s still giving me the tingles

Inspired by: this flash fiction prompt from Masterclass: A straight-A high school student falls in love with the troll who lives in her locker 

By the time her school received the grant it needed for each student to have their own personal troll, Holiday was about to graduate and was completely focused on her end-of-year exams. She didn’t waste time naming her troll or making it little outfits like some of the other students did. 

No, Holiday kept her relationship with her troll strictly professional. She didn’t need the troll to help keep her organized, to hand her extra pens or remind her that her English paper was due on Thursday. She only visited her locker in the morning, preferring to keep all of her books close by in case she got a spare moment to study.

But that Tuesday Holiday had a science project due and couldn’t carry all of her books and her reconstructed electrical generator, so she left a few in her locker. When she came back, her troll had the book propped up near the front door of the locker, straining in the dim light to read the words in front of him. 

“I like this book,” the troll said to her as she unzipped her backpack, “the moors sounds beautiful, and sort of scary too! Have you ever been?” 

Holiday smiled without showing her teeth shook her head, taking Wuthering Heights and placing it in her bag. “Maybe one day,” she said. But then the troll’s eyes darkened, and his forehead wrinkles deepened in despair. 

“Yes, for you,” he replied with a little wave as she shut her locker door, “Maybe one day.” 

For the rest of her classes Holiday found her thoughts returning to the little troll. At the final bell she went back to her locker and decided to leave Wuthering Heights there for the night. After all, she had another copy at home. 

The next morning when she opened her locker, her troll was in a much better mood. So she left him her science textbook, since she didn’t have a science class that day. 

“I had no idea all of this stuff existed,” the troll told her when she came back during lunch to check on him, “I especially like clouds. I wonder what it’s like to feel them rain.” So Holiday punctured the bottom of her plastic water bottle with a pen and let the water sprinkle down on the troll, ruining one of her forgotten notebooks in the process. But the troll was enthralled, unable to do anything except blink up at the droplets as they ran down his eyebrows and puddled into his elbows. 

While her troll was enjoying his rain shower, Archer walked up behind her. “What, your troll stink?” he asked her. Her troll looked at her with some concern but Holiday just winked at him, and ignored Archer the way she always did. She hardly ever noticed him looking at her while she stood at her locker, and mostly ignored his attempts to start a conversation. 

Holiday started visiting her locker during all of her breaks between classes, and started leaving behind more and more books. She even checked out a few from the library on the subjects her troll really seemed to enjoy. When her science project was returned to her with a perfect grade, she left it in her locker with the lightbulb on so her troll could see in the darkness.   

“How wonderful it must be,” the troll said one day, “to actually be able to do all of these things, instead of just read about them.” 

Archer noticed Holiday crying behind her history textbook, pretending to read. He sat down next to her and asked what was wrong. 

“I should be locked inside there, not him,” she whispered. “I could do anything and all I ever do is read. I never even thought to try anything else.”

“I think you’re great,” Archer whispered back, but Holiday wasn’t listening. 

“It’s not fair. He’s trapped.” 

It was against school rules to take a troll out of a locker, and students had been expelled for trying to sneak them out at the end of the day. There was no way Holiday could risk setting him free in her final days of high school. So she glumly continued giving him her books. She had stopped reading them herself. 

Still, she dutifully wrote her valedictorian speech, and at graduation delivered a heartfelt congratulations to her fellow students. 

“We have an entire world of possibilities open to us,” she said, staring out into the crowd of red gowns and smiling parents, “Too many options for any one of us to take advantage of, even in a thousand lifetimes. It could be sad,” she paused, because here was where she stopped believing in her own speech, “but it’s not. It’s the challenge of every person’s story, the promise that no matter what choices you make, you can always have the option of trying something new.” 

One last time, Holiday went to visit her locker. But as she opened the door, all she saw was her reconstructed electrical generator. Her troll was nowhere in sight. 

She searched the school for him, terrified that the principle would discover him missing and revoke her diploma. Outside in the parking lot, she saw Archer sitting in his car. He was not wearing a red gown, or his school uniform. He rolled the window down as she walked up. In the back seat, her troll was perched on a stack of textbooks, staring wild-eyed at the world around him. She smiled, and they both smiled back. 

“You coming?” he asked. 

Written: in college! I’ve been enjoying my Saturday too much to write anything worthwhile, so here’s a little throwback from a college writing class

Powered by: oh man, what was I even like in college? Stella & pizza, probably

Inspired by: in North Carolina in the summer, it gets so hot that worms burn onto the sidewalk, and I just thought that was important somehow

After you tell me, we don’t speak. Instead, we hunch together on the porch because I don’t want you to come inside. Sunday afternoon heat lays heavy on our shoulders. You clasp your fingers together between your knees and duck your head forward like a prayer so I watch the sky for God, but when nothing changes I say, “I’m happy for you.” 

You don’t look at me. “Don’t you ever say what you mean?” you ask your fingers.

“Only when it would make a difference.” 

You shift away from me and the wooden planks beneath you creak in response, begging us to listen to them. You twist to face the house. 

“That screen needs replacing,” you gesture towards the rusting front door. I don’t mention that you promised to fix it yourself, back when I was young and this house was new to us. 

The screen door was on a long mental list you tallied of all the things you would fix so we could “start a life together right,” including replacing the windows and cladding the roof. Including you. Including me. 

“I’ll tell Jack,” I let the words hit you and almost don’t feel a thing about it. 

“Right,” your voice is strained, “When will he be home?” I tell you tonight. I let you think that Jack sleeps here, that he has a toothbrush on my sink, that I am serious about Jack and not that Jack is simply there. 

“I should go,” you tell me, but nothing moves. Sitting next to you it feels as though nothing has moved in years. 

I remember a time when my greatest fear was a life without you but even when you left I’d find you every couple of months, waiting on the front porch until I pushed the door open. I stopped believing in things when I was fourteen, but I believed in you. My only conviction was that you would show up on my front porch eventually if I could just be patient. 

“What else can I do,” you reason with me even though I never asked for an explanation. “There’s lots of bad I’ve done, but I won’t abandon a kid. I wouldn’t do that.” And I know that I will never see you on this porch again. 

In front of us, I watch the worms crawling, stubbornly, despite the sun beginning to boil them from the outside in. They pass the carcasses of their brothers and sisters who have already fried in the sun, their bodies crooked smiles decorating my walkway. You tune in to my silence until we are both watching the same thing, both aware of the way our arms are almost touching, both comfortable with it and trembling. 

“You think maybe they would learn,” you tell me, “You think they should know better.” 

It makes me angry, that you can watch them hurting and say it’s their own fault. “Well maybe they can’t help it.” the words come out too hard. You hesitate before reaching for my hand and I hesitate before taking it away. 

For the first time you look at me. Your voice is hoarse and when I realize how weary you are I almost pull you inside where you can rest with me. 

“What are you thinking?” 

I’m thinking that I understand the worms. I understand their love of the sun, their longing to see it again, to feel it wrap around them so close it becomes another layer of them. The way it could burn them and they wouldn’t mind. I understand thinking you can handle it. I understand loving something even as it kills you. 

You close your eyes when my fingers reach your cheek, spread across you like a blessing. Your face is so dry that it’s flaking in places, ruddy from the sun, and I hate that the only part of you I can touch anymore is that first layer of your skin, already dead and waiting to shed. I press into you more, trying to get past what you once were towards what is new, what has never been felt before. 

Numbly I flex my fingertips, and the quick prick of my nails makes you flinch away from me and open your eyes. Your stare is wild and I’m looking right back, showing you that no one will love you like this again. 

Written: in my at-home office (where apparently I just live full-time now)

Powered by: happy Friday vibes

Inspired by: my actual to-do lists

(After Him) To Do List: 

• Laundry
• Water bill
• Electric bill 
• Learn: how to change the oil – Camry
• Clean kitchen (the way he did) 
• Clean bathrooms
• Pack & ship: the things he left behind
• Delete his phone #
• Block him on: Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, (Linkedin?) 
• Project proposal submitted
• Run
• Clear my head 
• Breathe
• Don’t cry
• Duolingo – DON’T LOSE YOUR STREAK! 
• Yoga
• Make dinner 
• Learn: how to un-clog the shower drain
• Learn: how to update the air filter
• Learn: how to fall asleep alone
• Learn: how to keep from breaking when you hear his name
• Call mom 
• Brush dog (the way he did) 
• Throw out his sweatshirt
• Throw out his basil
• Throw out his memory
• Call Amy
• Netflix subscription
• Birth control prescription?
• Amazon: basic tool kit, pajamas, wine? 
• Whole Foods: wine
• Call Brandon BECAUSE FUCK IT WHY NOT 
• Call him
• Breathe
• Don’t cry

• Breathe
• Don’t cry

• Breathe
• Don’t cry

• Breathe
• Don’t cry

Written: in my at-home office

Powered by: peanut butter

Inspired by: This Buzzfeed article on flash fiction

Thesis

He tells them it was a fun night. She tells them it has haunted her.

And they are both right. And it is still wrong.

Written: in my at-home office

Powered by: coffee, duh

Inspired by: daydreaming 

We were supposed to be at the beach. This time of year everyone’s at the beach, and we like the hot excitement of being surrounded by people. The twins always make new friends, and it’s good people watching for Rita and I – she says it fuels that novel she’s always talking about writing. 

This year though, we all stay home. We watch the news (both morning and night) and we all pick out what kind of masks we want to wear when we go outside. Rita stocks up on the traditional medical-style ones, while the kids and I scour the internet for fun patterns, finally settling on Minecraft for one and tie-dye for the other. Mine is black, with the Rolling Stone’s tongue in red, right where my mouth should be. 

It was a rough day, when we cancelled the reservation we’d had since last year at a little bungalow that allowed odd pets (for the twins refused to leave the rabbit in the care of anyone else). We had long ago run out of novelty in our lives. All the board games had been played, the backyard was a wasteland of abandoned attempts to satisfy our outdoor needs: a deflated baby pool in the corner, a half-dug fire pit, various balls and rackets scattered across the grass. The poles for a soccer goal were still boxed up in the garage waiting for me to assemble them. Same with the pieces of plywood and mesh we thought might one day construct an outdoor bunny paradise. But after the first few weeks became the first few months, it was hard to do much more than decide where to order dinner from, what movie to watch next. 

That night though, after it was all final, we decided to go out on a walk. The twins filled water bottles with crushed ice and Gatorade and Rita and I filled water bottles with…something else, and we donned our masks and dumped the bunny into a little wheelbarrow and set off. We walked in the street because it gave everyone more space and there were never any cars anymore. 

The world is calm and the sun is low. Rita points out the moon already attempting its takeover, and the twins take turns lifting the rabbit overhead and pretending he is Simba, they love doing this and have watched the new Lion King four times this month. The press their thumbs seriously into the little space between his eyes, smear an invisible glob of meaning across his forehead. 

It is not our vacation time at the beach, but it is not nothing. It is a way of being, here, now, as is, and we are happy enough with that. We are happy enough making as many of our minutes into good ones, knowing that when we return home tonight someone might be bored and someone might get upset but for now we are just walking together. And the world is calm and the sun is low, and the moon is attempting its takeover. 

Written: in my at-home office

Powered by: sheer stubbornness to post something every day, dammit

Inspired by: The Daily Stoic

“The task of a philosopher: we should bring our will into harmony with whatever happens, so that nothing happens against our will and nothing that we wish for fails to happen.” Epictetus, Discourses, 2.14.7

Today, she decided she would smile more. She would practice gratitude for all things, big and small, good and bad. Not bad, she reminded herself, just not so good. Just an exciting opportunity to experience something new. 

Today, she would not impose her will on the world. She would see herself as fortunate in everything. 

So when her alarm went off in the morning, she smiled to herself while she brushed her hair and she smiled when she stepped out the front door. What an exciting opportunity to get to work early and have a productive day. She smiled at the people she walked by on the way to bus. 

“Nice ass!” yelled a man from across the street, whom she had smiled at earlier. “Put a smile on!” he yelled again when she looked away. 

She smiled at her co-workers as they walked into the conference room for their morning meeting, and smiled as she pitched them her new idea. 

“I’m not feeling the energy here,” Marshall said.

“It’s a good effort, as always. But I think we could really take this to the next level.” Peter said.

“Excellent,” said Arnold, “Marshall, you run with this. Let Manda know if you need anything.” She smiled as they gathered their things and left. What an exciting opportunity to work more closely with members of her team on a project she cared about. 

She smiled to the man on her ride home as he apologized for smashing his briefcase into her face when he reached for the rail. He even flirted with her a little afterwards, gave her his business card and said he would take her out for coffee sometime to make up for it. What an exciting opportunity to get to know someone new.  

Their conversation was cut short when his phone began to ring. He winked at her as he answered, holding up his finger to pause what she had been telling him. She waited as he grew impatient listening to the call, watched as he snapped “Honestly Alicia, it’s just not that fucking difficult.” 

The woman sitting in front of her next to her young daughter was also watching. She waved for his attention, gestured to her child, and put a finger to her lips in a “please watch your language in front of kids in public places” kind of way. 

The man rolled his eyes, pulled the phone away from his mouth and hissed, “It’s a bus, bitch. Get used to it.” He got off at the next stop. 

At home, she sighed (and smiled!) as she changed into her running clothes, ready for her favorite way to end the day. What a great opportunity to de-stress and get in some healthy exercise. She set out with a smile on her face, even as the sky which had been sizzling and sunny all day began to turn grey.

The rain wasn’t unbearable, and she smiled as she realized how fortunate she was to be running while it was cool outside. She was really starting to enjoy herself and decided to run down the street to the bakery and treat herself to something sweet. 

She rounded the corner and ran past a bar, where a group of men talking boisterously walked out just as she tried to squeeze by. One flippant toss of an arm T-boned her right in the throat, knocking her backwards onto the sidewalk. 

“Oh fuck,” the man said, leaning down to help her up. His concern turned quickly to amusement, “Oh fuck,” he chuckled, “You total ate it. Man, my bad.” 

Her tailbone zinged with a pain that shot up and down her entire body. She glanced down at her phone and saw that the screen had cracked when she landed on it. What an exciting opportunity for a few days of bedrest, she thought, what an exciting opportunity to realize that material possessions aren’t that important, what an exciting opportunity… 

She didn’t see the punch coming, so of course neither did he. She didn’t punch him hard, but it shocked them both, enough that the man let out a little squeal as it happened. 

And then she kept running. And she didn’t apologize, and she didn’t look back, and she didn’t smile. 

What an exciting opportunity to just say fuck it. 

***

A quick note about this story, because one of my fears in writing fiction is being misinterpreted: writing and posting in the same day doesn’t leave much time for editing, so this isn’t as polished as I would like it to be. My idea was to write a snarky, amusing piece about this expectation that we always look for the positive, that we smile away our negative experiences. Honestly, this is advice I try to implement everyday. I’m not great at staying contented, in fact I’m really good at wallowing in my own self-pity, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with shifting your perspective when a situation leaves you feeling unhappy. But I do think there’s something wrong with never allowing yourself to feel your feelings. I do think there’s a problem with expecting people to behave perfectly at all times, especially women, especially women when they interact with men. Sometimes you just have to say fuck it (not condoning or encouraging violence in any way/shape/form). You certainly can’t just smile at everything and call it a good life. 

Moral of the story, it’s ok admit to having a shitty day and it’s also ok to power through a shitty day and not let it get you down.

Moral of the quick note about this story, just don’t take anything I say/write too seriously because I honestly have no idea and am still figuring it all out too.

Written: in various locations 

Powered by: sunlight

Inspired by: a writing prompt on voice from the Start With This podcast: “Find a piece of writing you like. Sit with that work and think about what grabs you. Find the DNA of that work and what it is you identify with. Now write a 200-400 word story in the style of that piece of writing.” I chose Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert M. Pirsig, a work of autobiographical fiction and the book I’m currently reading. 

“What I would like to do is use the time that is coming now to talk about some things that have come to mind.” I find myself wondering when it was that I last talked, and really spoke, with anyone about anything important. Not important like “what’s new?” but important like “what’s best?” So much of my time and the time of everyone around me is spent skimming on the surface of it all, both the routine and the exciting, without even realizing it or in fact thinking that we are all doing just the opposite. We ask each other about what’s going on in our lives, how we are doing, and we mean in all sincerity to discover the answers to those questions, but I suppose I’ve never been much interested in the recent developments of life. I find that the real questions are the ones we have been asking all along, that the real answers lie in the things we have always known, and that the more I can stay here, now, in this stream of consciousness way of being and thinking and talking about just one thing at a time, I’m able to go much deeper to the real heart of the thing. We spend too much time being broad, sweeping over everything. The real heart of it is in the depth, in disrupting the stillness and dislodging the silt that has settled into the ruts of our being and then—as the dust settles—discover what is left.