Dress shop- A fiction piece

This is a small piece of a longer story that I am working on. Let me know what you think! And thanks to my sister for the inspiration! : )

The sign on the door reads, “Half off select bridal gowns.” I pause for a moment before opening the door to the dress shop. Reading the words over again in my head, I realize the sign is directed towards me. The next expensive dress purchase I am going to make will be a wedding gown. The thought makes me nauseous.

“What are you looking at?”

My sister Rachel is standing beside me, annoyed that I haven’t opened the door for us.

“Nothing. Just realized I’m old.”

I open the door and we make our way into the sea of dresses. My mom gave me the job of finding my sister a dress for her senior prom that was “fun but classy”. She said she didn’t have the patience after dealing with me and the three proms I went to. I laugh to myself at the site of a room full of teenage girls modeling dresses that expose parts of their bodies that I wouldn’t even show my doctor. My sister walks towards the left side of the room to begin her search for the perfect prom dress. The right side of the room is the bridal side. Also known as my side, or the side I will go to when I get engaged. But that means I have to find a boyfriend, and that means I have to meet someone. Now slightly more depressed than I was when I first arrived, I follow her around and shake my head to signal whether or not I approve of the dress. She holds up a hot pink dress with the sides cut out and the lowest neckline I have ever seen. I raise my eye brows and she puts in back down.

“ Uhhh!! You are no fun! I might as well wear a turtle neck to prom.”

“Yea, I’m sure it would be a lot cheaper than this crap.”

She rolls her eyes and picks up another dress. She shows it to me and I nod. I don’t even care at this point. I hated prom. My freshman year I went with a friend who told me if I dated him he would stay straight. He recently “came out” and now hosts his own live website with video updates every hour. Junior year I went with a big group of girls. We told ourselves we were above taking petty high school boys as dates. Senior year I managed to find a boyfriend a few months before prom. Instead of slow dancing the night away, I spent my night in the men’s bathroom watching my boyfriend vomit Jack Daniels on himself. I guess the saying is true; prom night is a night you will never forget.

As we wait in line for a dressing room I glance over towards the right side of the room. It looks so…….boring. White dress after white dress after white dress. Throw in an ivory one every now and then. Why do wedding dresses have to be white anyway? I’m going to wear a black wedding dress just to piss off whoever made the rule that wedding dresses have to be white. The mirrors on the bridal side have pedestals in front of them for the future brides to stand on. A small part of me wants to run over there and stand on one just to see what happens. I can see it now. As soon as anyone who isn’t engaged so much as sets a toe on the pedestal, alarms will sound and the police will be called.

A sales girl with a name tag that reads “Jo” takes us back to a dressing room. Before my sister shuts the door I peek in to see if she has a pedestal in her room. She doesn’t. I am slightly disappointed. At least my side has something to offer.

“I’m gonna go sit in the chairs on the bridal side okay?”
“Whatever.”

“Come out and show me when you get the dress on.”

“Yea.”

I make myself comfy in a plush zebra print chair. The chairs are set in a semi circle facing the mirrors with the pedestals. A few seconds later, a petite blonde girl emerges from a dressing room and walks out to one of the mirrors. Her dress is white, with a pink ribbon under her bust. She looks like she can’t be a day older than 19. I watch her like a creeper and pretend to be texting someone on my phone. She has friends with her, bridesmaids I assume.

“Oh my god! Get on the pedestal!”

“You look so freaking gorgeous!”

I laugh out loud a little and I hope they didn’t hear me. The bride to be climbs up on the pedestal and stands tall in all her glory. Her three bridesmaids admire her with the fake smiles plastered on their faces. The dress isn’t right for her. Her boobs are too small and she keeps pulling the dress up when it slides down. She does a full spin in the mirror and the girls let out screams of delight.

“Doesn’t this just make you want to go get married?”

Heck no. I check the time on my phone. We’ve only been here twenty minutes and it feels like hours have gone by. Finally my sister comes out.

Miley Cyrus equals words of wisdom?

The Climb- Miley Cyrus

I can almost see it
That dream I'm dreaming but
There's a voice inside my head sayin,
You'll never reach it,
Every step I'm taking,
Every move I make feels
Lost with no direction
My faith is shaking but I
Got to keep trying
Got to keep my head held high

There's always going to be another mountain
I'm always going to want to make it move
Always going to be an uphill battle,
Sometimes I'm gonna to have to lose,
Ain't about how fast I get there,
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb


At this moment, I apologize for any negative statements I've made about Miss Cyrus. If you haven't listened to this song, you should. It seems very fitting for my life right now. Rock on Miley.

Reflection- A fiction piece

As I stand here in front of the mirror, I’m suddenly reminded of my first best friend. Her name was Ashley, and we used to play “wedding” every day after preschool while my Nana babysat us. She was always the bride and I was the groom. Ashley would wear her white Easter dress and I would steal one of my dad’s ties. Back then, I might as well have been a boy. I ate dirt. I played with worms. One time, when I was five, I even tried to pee standing up over the toilet.

When I started middle school Ashley moved away to another city. During gym class I met a girl named Samantha, and she introduced me to makeup. The first day I came downstairs with bright red lipstick on, my mom laughed out loud and asked, “Is the circus coming to town?” I had my first kiss at summer camp between 7th and 8th grade. His name was Tommy Sitterson. His breath smelled like Doritos mixed with tic tacs. Needless to say I was left disappointed.

My older brother Josh convinced me to try out for field hockey when I began my freshman year of high school. He insisted that sports were the key to popularity. What he failed to tell me was that playing field hockey was the fastest way to turn into a lesbian. I quit after one season. I found my place on the student council sophomore year and fell in love with the president of the senior class. Something about the way his eye brows moved up and down while he gave his speeches just made my heart race. He took me on a date to Applebee’s and afterwards I let him feel me up in the back seat of his Mustang Convertible. We never spoke again.

After graduation, I started community college with a major in criminal justice. My mom always told me I would make a good detective, like the ones on CSI. To pay for school I got a job as a cocktail waitress at one of the upscale night clubs in town. Dancing paid more but I couldn’t bring myself to that. My second semester of school I met a guy named Alex in one of my science classes. He was in his late twenties, and had just decided to go back to school. He asked me out after our third week of class together. On our first date he took me to McDonald’s and we ordered cheeseburgers and shakes off the dollar menu. I offered to pay but he refused. He didn’t tell me that he had a child or that he had been married already until we had been dating for six months. By that point I was so in love that I didn’t care about his baby momma drama.

As I look at my reflection, I feel old yet young at the same time. My white dress makes me feel silly for trying to represent something for which I clearly am not. I should have gone with ivory. The doubts are starting to come. This is the part in the movie where the girl starts to panic about whether she made the right decision about getting married. Enter maid of honor here. The only thing I have is my fifteen year old cousin to use as I stand in; A stand in for the best friend that moved away, the best friends that slipped away, and all the best friends I never made. There are so many different thoughts going through my mind. Is 23 too young to be settling down? Should I have gone away to college? Am I ready be with someone forever? Whatever happened to my plans to road trip to California?
I turn my head to the sound of a knock on the door. My mom sticks her head in. I smile. She smiles back. “It’s time,” she says, barely above a whisper. I take a deep breath and blow the air out through my mouth. She opens the door all the way as I make my way over to her. “The happiest day of my life right?” I smile a cheesy grin and make my way out into the hall. Gracefully, I pick up my dress and begin my walk down the hall to start the beginning of the rest of my life.

View From a Wheel Chair- A Fiction Piece

Sitting here in my wheelchair, I barely recognize my own neighborhood. Living here for the past twenty years, I thought I knew every detail about it. Every pot hole on the sidewalk, every tree, every bush, now looks different for some reason. The legs that once pounded the pavement in front of my house now sit lifelessly below my waist. The familiar trees that used to scoop me up with their branches now hang their heads in pity. Their branches droop down towards the dead grass as if trying to say they are sorry for what I’ve been through. The birds perched on my window ledge whistle to one another. They are gossiping about me; about how I’m always alone. Perhaps they are asking where the bird seed is that I always used to leave out. I feel worthless as I look at my overgrown flower beds and dried up plants. I took walking for granted. I would give anything just to run down my drive way and pick up the mail. The doctor says there is a chance that my legs may get better. I keep waiting for the day that I can feel them again.
The comforting scents of fresh fruit and cinnamon in my house have been replaced with a stench of decaying wood. I look around my bedroom and notice white paint chipping off the wall. A beige coat of paint shows underneath it, and it makes the walls look dirty. I feel dirty. My house is dirty. How the hell am I supposed to clean when I can’t leave this damn wheelchair? The thought of making a ramp down my front porch crosses my mind. Crawling down the stairs and back into the chair is getting a little tedious. As I glance at the calendar on my wall, I realize I haven’t left my house in over a month. I’m ashamed by the fact that my own reckless driving has led me to where I am now. I watch people slow down as they pass my house. They’re probably thinking, “What a sad old man, just couldn’t put that bottle down.”
No way I’m letting them see me like this. Sometimes at night, the kids knock on my door. I can hear them giggling as my wheels squeak down the front hall. When I finally manage to open the door, no one is there. In the distance I can see small figures running and laughing at the prank they have just pulled. I hate kids. I remember when there were only 5 or 6 houses in this neighborhood. Everybody knew everybody. Neighbors were kind to one another. Just last week I had to buy a security alarm because of all the recent robberies around the block. Not once has anyone offered to cook me dinner or take me to the grocery store. Isn’t that what neighbors are supposed to do? Granted, I never did anything for anybody before my accident. I was always cordial though; probably because I was too drunk to care.
Today is Saturday. The last time I showered was four days ago when my sister came by and helped me. Before the accident, we hadn’t spoken in almost 15 years. She is the only one in my family who will talk to me now. She says she feels sorry for me. I bet she never thought she’d end up with a drunken, paraplegic brother. Hell, I never thought I would end up like this. Having to let someone help my old, wrinkly body get in and out of the bath tub is pathetic. Sitting here, I contemplate showering on my own. I smell like rotten onions mixed with Bourbon. The smell reminds me that I’m out of alcohol too. The whole “being sober” thing gives me way too much time to reflect on things. I’m not ready to reflect yet. Finding someone to buy me liquor has become such a pain. I have a hard time getting anyone who knows me to buy it. I guess they feel guilty contributing to the habits of an alcoholic.
Looking out my window I see a barbecue going on across the street. I bet they have alcohol. I open my window and the aroma of grilled meat flows into my room. My stomach gurgles. I’ve been living on spam and rice for the past month. How much effort would it take to get across the street? The reward would surely be worth it. I think of what I’ll say when I finally get there. I picture a crowd of people standing around making small talk about meaningless shit. Maybe they won’t even notice the smelly, old man in the wheelchair. Who the hell am I kidding?

-Lauren Rowe