works in progress

Like any good ADHD neurodivergent, I have several things going at once. Here’s a peek at some of my fiction works in progress.

(Copyright for all, Helen Tosch)

Slime Crimes and Miss DeMeanors Sequel Sneak Peak

coming soon

At the End of Dorsey Road

Here’s an excerpt from chapter 2

The children watched through the front window as their mother’s red shawl blended with the brilliant autumn leaves. It wasn’t the first time she’d done that – left the house and headed for the woods. There were other times too. And it was always when the Reverend came to call.

“Why is Mother going into the forest again?” Matthew asked, as if younger sister Mary, only seven years old, would have an answer. “And what might she be carrying in that basket?”

“She’s bringing supper to the beavers down by the river. That’s what I believe.”

“That’s silly, Mary. What would the beavers need with our food? They’ve got all the trees in the forest to eat.”

“Maybe they’re tired of eating trees.”

Matthew ignored his sister. “And why does she only go when Papa’s gone?”

“Papa doesn’t like beavers. I heard him cursing them once. He was real angry.”

“I’m going to follow her,” Matthew declared. He was nine, going on ten, and he liked to solve mysteries.

“Oh, no. You best not. Mama told us to stay right here.”

“No she didn’t. She told us not to touch the stove. I’m not going to touch the stove. Are you?”

“No.”

“Well then, we won’t be disobeying, will we? I’m going, and that’s final. Are you coming with me?”

“I’m scared of the forest. Aren’t there snakes and spiders in there?”

“Yes, but they won’t hurt you. I’ll protect you.”

“You will? Promise?”

“I will. Now let’s get going before she comes back.”

“But what if Papa comes home?” Mary asked, worry quieting her voice.

“He won’t. The dairy is miles up the road. And besides, every time he and Mama have words with each other, he goes away for a long time.” Matthew grabbed Mary’s hand. “Come now, we’ve got to hurry.”

As the children crossed the porch, Matthew reached up toward the dinner bell he always rang as he passed by, but hesitated and continued walking.

“Why didn’t you ring the bell, Matthew?”

“I didn’t want Mama to hear. She might come back if she heard that bell.”

“Don’t we want her to come back?”

“Not until we find out where she’s going we don’t.”

Not 200 feet beyond the clearing was the tool shed. It stood its ground, despite shaky footings and haphazardly nailed boards. There was a door, but it didn’t close tight, and a small window, clouded with dirt and moss. There were voices coming from inside. Matthew wondered whether it could be Mama. But then they heard a distinctive voice – a man’s voice.

“Who is that?” Mary whispered. “I’m scared.”

“Shhhh,” Matthew admonished. From the slope of his shoulders it was easy to tell that he was afraid too. Afraid, but curious. They tiptoed around to the window side and tried to peek in, but neither was tall enough to see above the sill. Then Mary spotted it – an opening between some boards, about two feet above ground and just wide enough to give them a view. They crouched down, huddled together, and looked inside. What they saw stole their breath. And though they didn’t know it then, it would become something of a legend, spreading like wildfire through the town, reaching as far as Boston and Hartford by winter, truth intermingling with imagination and gossip, as Hannah’s story took on a life of its own. Even my knowledge of what really happened in that tool shed is colored by children, retelling the story amongst themselves as they lay in bed, unable to sleep. Children who, though as honest as they come, didn’t quite understand what they saw that October afternoon.

Dear Ava

Dear Ava is an epistolary friends-to-lovers novel that follows best friends Maggie and Ava through more than two decades and across several countries.

Here’s an excerpt

A letter to the three pints Maggie consumed on July 3, 1988, from Maggie Maxwell

Dear Beer,

First off, I apologize for calling you by a generic name, such as beer, but for the life of me, I cannot remember, nor do I care at this moment, what type of beer you are that I consumed tonight. I do remember that you took a few sips to get used to, being warm and all, but once I did, you went down ever so nicely. Now don’t you go getting all pervy on me, Beer. I meant when you found your way from my mouth to my stomach, you did so easily, without making me scrunch up my face into a sourpuss grimace. You weren’t half bad.

But, I am not writing to you to tell you that you tasted surprisingly good, but to let you know what you’ve done to me this very night. It’s fair to say I was a little drunk, which was a first for me. I’m a good girl. They call me goody-two-shoes, because they are dumb and because I am, but if they had seen me tonight, they’d be shitting their knickers. I was B.A.D.

You see, Beer, you loosened me up. You also made me have to pee so damn badly that I had to go in a port-a-pot, where I lost my favorite necklace into the toilet, which Eddie, my new friend and semi-hero, actually fished out, washed off in a fountain, and returned to me, relatively unscathed. Now, that’s still not the story I have in mind, and I want to tell you now because my eyes are starting to get heavy and I think I need to sleep.

I suppose there’s no way to go about this confession, other than to just get it out there, so, Beer, here it goes. Ava kissed me tonight. Or perhaps I kissed her. The jury is still out on how or why it happened. The three of us, me, Ava and Eddie, were lying on the ground outside the hostel, looking at the sky, hoping to see a shooting star so we could make a wish. We were on our backs, heads together, bodies fanning out somewhat like a three pointed star. I said “I wish we’d see a star so I could wish that this gash on my head from the toilet would leave nary a scratch in the morning.” And Ava, without explanation, reached over and touched my head, stroked my hair. “Your hair is so pretty, Maggie,” she said. Eddie was there, but I haven’t the foggiest idea what he was doing. Probably mentally going over his options, if he’s a typical man.

I didn’t say anything. I just lay there and let her play with my hair. It felt divine. She was gentle. And sensual. And drunk. But that doesn’t matter. “Do you want me to rub your shoulders? It might help you forget about the pain in your head,” Ava offered.

I could feel myself getting tingly as I became distinctly aware of what was going on between my legs, and at the same time, I was nervous as hell because I had no idea what was happening.

“Can I watch?” Eddie piped in.

“If it floats your boat, Eddie. You did get Maggie’s necklace, so I suppose we owe you something.”

Then, she rolled over to me. She smelled like summer. And whisky. I started to imagine what it would be like to kiss a girl – to kiss her. Before I knew it, she was on top of me, straddling me with her thighs, sitting upright, her fingers gently reaching behind me and massaging my neck. It wasn’t like any neck rub I’d gotten before. Her forearms brushed against my breasts, and I could hear my breathing over the song of the crickets, which made me feel like a self-conscious fool.

“You two are killing me,” Eddie said. “I need another drink.”

She leaned down then. I could feel her breath on my neck. It gave me the chills. “What do you think, Mags, should we give Eddie something to write home about?” Her lips brushed my ear as she talked. I noticed my underwear was getting wet. I didn’t speak. I was afraid of what would come out of my mouth.

It sounds cliché, I know, but it’s as if time stood still as she swept my hair away from my neck and her lips met my skin. “Let’s show him how it’s done,” she suggested playfully.

My next actions I blame ninety-nine percent on you, Beer. As Ava was still kneeling over me, I slid up to sit face-to-face with her. I kissed her neck. It was soft, unlike anything I’d experienced before, and in the moonlight I could see her pulse, as quick as my own. Then, before I could think about what to do next, she kissed me.

“Holy shit,” I heard Eddie gasp under his breath, but I didn’t care. I could taste the whisky she’d had earlier, and for some ungodly reason, I found it incredibly sexy. I wanted more. She was free with her tongue, teasing me, gentle but urgent. Her hands found their way to my waist, and she slid them up, resting just beneath my breasts. I wrapped my hands around her and pulled her in a little closer, kissing her deeply.

It was just then that a group of fellow hostel mates stumbled up the walk, making all sorts of ruckus, and startling us out of our moment. I think Eddie was still in awe, and Ava looked at me and laughed. “We really gave them a show, didn’t we?” And with that, the kiss was over, and we left our spot under the stars and headed to our rooms. Within minutes, Ava was slipping into her sheets. “Come sleep with me, Maggie love,” she whispered, but before I could figure out whether she was serious or not, she fell asleep. And instead of sleeping, I am here, writing to my new acquaintance and telling you about my crazy night. I don’t know what to make of it. I have never been so turned on in my life, yet I don’t know whether it was Ava’s kiss or the drinking or a little of both, as I’ve never been drunk nor kissed a girl before this night. It’s not a good experiment, without a control subject, introducing two new stimuli into one evening. Now I’ll never know exactly why I wanted nothing more than to get lost in that kiss. Damn you, beer. I fear I’m forever ruined.

Your new friend, Maggie

1988, July 4
Another letter to Beer from Maggie Maxwell

Dear Beer,

We are no longer friends. My mouth feels like I swallowed a cotton ball, I believe there is a monkey playing cymbals behind my eyes, and the smell of baking croissants from the kitchen makes me want to heave. Unless you can find a way for us to commune without me ending up a pile of rubbish, we will have to part ways.

But you should know that today Ava is acting as if nothing ever happened. I guess we know, you and Jack Daniels share the responsibility for the kiss. I am fairly certain it was a drunken fluke that is all but forgotten.

Until next time, Maggie

1988, July 4
A note to Maggie Maxwell from Ava Ryan

You looked too peaceful to disturb, so I went to the market on my own. I’ll return with some fresh bread, cheese, jam and tea so we can eat like the locals. If we can find some fireworks today, we’ll need to light a couple off in honor of my American darlin’ and her country’s independence from the evil British.

Love, Ava

A Time for Burning

Content warning: Violence, arson

This is a story about an 18-year-old boy who gets caught up in an arson crime spree and ends up charged as a domestic terrorist who’s facing 30 years in jail. Here’s an excerpt.

In the corner of his eye Alex saw flickers of red plastic, here and then gone and here again, as Will ran toward the corner with the gas can in hand. Behind him, a car was on fire. A stupid fucking white Chevy HHR. Other than the crackle of flames trying but failing to spread and Will’s quick footsteps on the sidewalk, the night was quiet. He thought about running too, running the hell out of there. But he figured the cops would see him – only him – running away, and they’d think he’d done it. Maybe I should call…his thought was cut off by squealing tires, pealing laughter, and urgent voices as Paul and Cathy pulled around the corner again.

“Get in the fucking car, Nordon!”

And so he did. He didn’t want to, but he did. Will had taken the backseat next to Cathy, so he slid in shotgun.

“Oh my God, that is so fucking awesome!” Will yelled, throwing a half-full soda can out the window as they screeched off into the night. He sounded different. Evil almost. “That fucking rapist piece of shit is going to freak when he sees his car. Holy fucking fuck, I wish I could see his face.”

“What’s left of his car.” Paul laughed, reaching back to give Will a high five.

“Go back around the block again. I want to see it,” Cathy urged.

“Are you insane? What if somebody called the cops?” Paul responded.

“Did you hear her, Paul? Go back. Don’t be a fucking pussy,” Will said. He was still laughing.

So Paul drove back around to that house on President Street. That one story shit hole with brown crispy grass where the lawn was supposed to be. And the HHR, though charred and bubbled on the bumper and tailgate, was not on fire. All that remained was a black trail leading from the sidewalk to the car and a stink in the air that could not be mistaken for burning leaves or cigarette smoke.

Alex wavered between relief and guilt and a strange sense of justice. Relief because it was over. Guilt because they’d done something totally uncool. And justice, well, he thought that somehow maybe that guy deserved this. He deserved it for what Will said he did to Cathy. And maybe he even deserved it for buying such a stupid, ugly, American piece of shit. Who buys Chevy HHRs anyway? White trash assholes who wear wife beaters and drink Coors lite from a can while watching wrestling from their Lazy Boys, that’s who. So yeah, maybe this guy did deserve it. And even if the guy didn’t really deserve it, he hadn’t done anything to burn the car. Not really. He was just there. When they picked him up, he thought they were going to get some food at Steak ’n’ Shake and maybe have a video game tournament. And when he went into his grandparents’ garage to get the gas can for Will, he didn’t know that the other three had planned to get revenge on some fucktard who had held Cathy down and screwed her even after she supposedly said no. He just thought Will’s 1973 red El Camino with a cracked white leather top needed gas again like it had so many times before since Will jerry-rigged the gas tank. Now that was a car. That was something to be proud of—the kind of bad ass autos Chevy made before they started producing crap like the HHR and its 4-cylinder engine with less horsepower than his grandparents’ Vespa scooter.

Alex realized that Paul wasn’t driving towards home. “Are we going to Steak ’n’ Shake now?” Alex asked.

“I don’t know, man. Will, where are we going to now?” Paul asked.

“Let’s go to Jessica’s house,” Cathy suggested, more to Will than to Paul. Alex didn’t know who Jessica was. Hell, he didn’t even know Cathy except through Will talking about her all the time. Will wanted to get in her pants, but she was holding out on him, teasing him like a little bitch. That’s what Will said anyway.

“That skank? Why would we go there? Are we going to throw another can of beans at her car?” Will replied.

Untitled

Content warning: Dementia

“Franklin, you didn’t just flick your toenail into the magazine rack, did you?” Sarah asked her husband, disdain uncloaked.

He wondered when she became an uptight nag. She wondered if he’d ever not need mothering.

“In forty-seven years, have I ever encouraged you to leave your nail clippings wherever you wanted?” She asked, reaching for the tissue box.

In forty-seven years, he thought, have I ever asked you to badger me? No. I haven’t. That’s because it drives me crazier than your bat shit mother did.

But he didn’t say that. Instead, he took the tissue from her, thanked her, used the tissue and stuffed it into his pocket before picking up his second martini of the day and going back to the memory-enhancing game on his iPad.

She sighed, looked at his unruly eyebrows, wiry and grey and sprouting in every direction, and sighed again.

It wasn’t always this way.

A long time ago, they were two lovers—full of dreams and passion and hope.

He smoked weed with Bob Dylan, rode a motorcycle, photographed the German countryside for his colonel when other enlisted men were killing or being killed in Vietnam, and watched as a brain tumor stole his mother when he was just 15.

She hung upside down from the French King Bridge, made her own prom dress, touched Paul McCartney’s hand at Shea Stadium, and wept at work as she cradled a chemically scorched baby in her hands after a botched abortion left him alive, awaiting his last breath.

He played guitar. And harmonica. At the same time (with the aid of a coat hanger contraption he sculpted himself).

She held her mother’s head in her lap the day her father announced he was leaving the family to be with his secretary. He was moving with her to California. He even dyed his hair and grew a mustache for the occasion. It was Sarah’s eighth birthday.

And from the time Sarah was 16 and Franklin 18, they were in love. Crazy in love.

“What would you do without your drink and your game pad?” She asked. “I wish I’d never bought you that god forsaken thing.”

Now it was his turn to sigh. Then he jiggled the ice in his glass and took another swallow of his martini.

She put the Bloomingdale’s catalog on the coffee table, lining it up neatly with the other catalogs and magazines, got up from the sofa, and walked to the kitchen.

He didn’t look up from his game, but he knew she was upset again. The sound of glasses clinking angrily together and silverware crashing into the drawer told him all he needed to know.

If years of supervising factory tests hadn’t dimmed his hearing, he might also have known she was crying.

She felt unappreciated. Invisible. No matter how many times she asked, he never seemed to understand she needed help.

She opened the fridge and stood there for a few moments before speaking.

“Where’s the milk I asked you to get?” She asked, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

He didn’t respond, so she spoke louder.

“Did you forget the milk, Franklin? Jesus. I asked you for one thing. One thing. And you couldn’t remember to pick up the milk?”

“Oops. Was I supposed to get milk?”

“Was I supposed to get milk. What kind of question is that? Yes. It was the only thing I asked you to get. You even called me from the store to ask me what it was I wanted. You had forgotten, and I had to remind you. Again. And yet you somehow walked out of the store without the milk.”

He hated to admit it, but he knew she was right. He seemed to forget a lot lately. He’d even left the stove on when he took Miss Tica for her afternoon walk. “I’m sorry. I guess I did forget. I’ll go now.” He put down his glass and iPad, stood up, shook the pins and needles from his left leg, and walked toward the kitchen. He had the sudden urge to give her a kiss and tweak her beautifully round ass.

But then she spoke.

“You’re sorry? I’m sorry. You didn’t forget your vodka or olives, did you? Dammit, Franklin. Do you even listen to me anymore? Are you losing your hearing? Or are you just losing your mind? Sometimes I think you’re just worthless.” She immediately wished she could take the words back, but there they hung, thick and full of ire.

She’d heard those words before. The first time was 1957. She’d brought home a report card with a C on it. Her mother stood there, oblivious to the five A’s—even one in math—and she admonished her daughter. “Sometimes I think you’re just worthless. Just like your father. You can’t even get a decent grade in science. How will you ever make it as a doctor? You won’t even make it out of junior high school at this rate.” Her mother was drunk, but that didn’t make the words sting any less. She cried herself to sleep that night. 

And she vowed to never get another C. She vowed to be perfect.

Urge to make amends gone, Franklin turned away from the kitchen and walked out the door. She thought about stopping him. Running after him and apologizing. Telling him that it was not hatred and loathing, but fear and loneliness that spoke those words. That she loved him fiercely and couldn’t bear that she was losing him a little more every day. But worry and sorrow had drained every last bit of energy from her muscles. All she could do was cry.

Scars

Content warning: Domestic violence

September 24, 1977. The weather had just begun to change. The warmth and comfort of summer had abandoned this small, sleepy town, as autumn arrived with a vengeance. A child sat on the hardwood floor of his bedroom, working diligently on a puzzle scattered on the floor, when the sound of shattering glass seized his attention. For a moment he was still, listening intently, but he soon stood up and started to walk down the hall toward the doorway of the room he’d been told never to enter.

“This is Mommy and Father’s private place. No children are allowed,” Father would always say.

On this day, however, the child could not stay away. Something unexplainable drew him to the room, and not even fear of punishment would deter him. The jarring sound of glass scattering in shards quickly followed frantic, tortured screams.

The child was quite familiar with the harsh sounds, but his parents had always explained that their arguments were just the way the two sometimes communicated—they loved each other very much, but sometimes that love turned to loud voices. They assured the child and his siblings that it was perfectly normal. In time, the child had come to accept the noise and the bangs and thuds he heard in the night. He had come to believe that all families were this way. He also believed that when Father hit Mommy it was accidental. Father loved Mommy and would never hurt her on purpose. Sometimes he even thought maybe Mommy deserved a spanking, just as he and his siblings did each time they misbehaved. So he accepted it as part of life and learned to live with it—even drown it out sometimes. Though he loved Mommy very much and wanted to protect her, he also loved his father and admired him more than any other man. He thought his father was always right. Someday, the child wanted to be just like him.

However, today’s noises made the child feel strange. Even above the shrieking wind banging on the windows, begging entrance to the warm house, the child could hear his parents’ struggle. He heard not only their voices, but also their words—angry and hateful. This time, however, his mommy’s tone was different. It was louder. And scarier.

The child, dragging his tattered green blanket behind him, walked trance-like toward the room. When he arrived, the child peeked inside through the small opening in the door of the room that Father often forbade him to enter. What he saw paralyzed him.

He watched, horror struck, as fear, confusion, and a rising rage he’d never experienced before welled up inside him. He wanted to cry or scream out, but he just stood, watched, and absorbed the terror unfolding before his eyes.

His mommy was in the corner, cowering in a puddle of broken blue glass. She was holding a large piece in one hand and wiping blood from her forehead with the other. Father was standing above her and it appeared to the child that Father was shaking. They stood that way for a few moments. The only sound he heard was the choppy labored breathing emanating from each of their mouths. Then, without warning, Mommy lunged upward, arms flailing, trying to slash Father. The child had never seen Mommy fight back before. A scream rose up in his throat but died upon his lips. Though mute by emotion, the child’s eyes were wide, recording every move.

Father grabbed Mommy’s arm and squeezed so hard Mommy yelped and dropped the glass. Mommy began to whimper and plead for mercy. She apologized for confronting him. She promised that she would never cross him again. She told him he was right and he could do whatever he thought best with the children. But her pleadings only fanned Father’s rage.

He threw her on the bed, wrapped his hands around her neck, and slammed her head against the giant mahogany headboard.

His vengeful voice filled the room. The words were in Greek, but the child understood most of what Father was saying.

“Shut up!  You ignorant, pitiful woman!”

The booming sound as Father repeatedly bashed Mommy’s head reverberated around the room. Though she couldn’t get loose, Mommy was flailing and choking on screams, desperately trying to escape the grip of her husband’s furious hands.

Before long, the child noticed a crimson stain on the white crocheted pillow covers that Grandma had made for Mommy. Hot but quiet tears streaked the child’s face. He was helpless, scared, and enraged.

Soon after that, Mommy’s screams grew weary and her legs stopped kicking. Yet Father continued the beating, even after Mommy was quiet and still.

Then, as his rage seemed to subside, he sat on the bed next to Mommy and gathered her up in his arms. She lay there limp, the back of her hair matted with blood.

He rocked her for a moment, mumbling words the child could not hear, before he put his fingers on her wrist and then frantically on her neck.

The child watched, confused, but glad that Mommy and Father weren’t fighting anymore. 

The quiet strangely comforted the child, yet he was unable to move from the doorway. As he watched, Father put his ear to mommy’s lips and began to scream. But this time it wasn’t an angry scream. The wails soon gave way to crying, fist pounding, and placing his head in his palms.

“No, Leena, no” he said repeatedly. “I love you my sweet. I am sorry, so sorry, so sorry. Please don’t leave me.”

The child stared as the blood from his mommy’s head spread, seeping, from pillow to sheets. He continued to watch, frightened as ever, but still mute as Father fumbled with the phone and called the operator to ask for an ambulance. Then, without warning, Father got up from the bed and turned toward the door. The child tried to hide, but Father saw him. The child was afraid Father would punish him for being near the forbidden room and spying; but he just looked at his son, told him to go to his room, and went to the front door to wait for the ambulance. In silence, the child obeyed.

That day, an unspoken agreement was made between father and son; and through the years, the child never mentioned or even consciously remembered what had happened on that day in September when summer lost the battle to autumn.