Writing

Inspiration Strikes When You Least Expect It

I’m working on a new project. I’m excited! I can’t wait to see how this goes. Or how far. Kind of curious to see if I can pull this off. Character names are going to change later so I don’t have to keep them straight. For now, enjoy a snippet of what I hope to make the first chapter.

xo Jesi

 

Snippet from I Love You All the Same by Jesi Scott

 

Beth thought it was a heart attack. Denise pronounced it a definite stroke. Their predictions didn’t matter to me, really; the causation was the issue, and both my sisters and I knew the fault was mine. I was the reason Mom was in the hospital, and all I could do was watch through the rectangular glass on the hospital door as nurses and doctors executed an intricate dance around her bed. Tubes went here, stethoscope there, a quick flash of a shiny syringe before it plunged into her arm.

One of the older nurses outside the room came toward me. “Ma’am, you’ll have to go back to the waiting room. We’ll let you know something as soon as we can.”

“No, that’s my mom. I’m not leaving.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you must,” the nurse insisted. “The doctors and nurses are doing all they can for your mom and they don’t need to worry about you being in the way.” Her care-worn hands were gentle as she took my shoulders and turned me back towards the emergency waiting area.

“But, if she dies, it will be all my fault.” I choked on the words. “I need to tell her I’m sorry. I need to tell her I love her.” Tears ran freely down my face; my shirt was damp where they fell unheeded.

The nurse took me in her arms and held me. How many people had she held exactly like this, hearing those same words? And still she held me and said the same words she’d probably spoken thousands of times.

“Your mom knows you love her, honey. And it’s not your fault. These things happen.” Heartbroken, I let her lead me to a chair in the waiting room. “I’ll be back with some water for you,” she said, then left.

“I told you they wouldn’t let you stay,” a voice said to my right. I turned my head and looked at Denise. “But no, you always have to do things your way,” she declared.

I turned and walked to a chair further away from my sister. I was not in the mood for one of her virtuous speeches. Unfortunately, Denise isn’t empathetic, or telepathic for that matter, and her self-righteous wisdom followed me to my seat.

“Denise, this isn’t the time or place,” I told her.

She sat down in the chair opposite me so I’d have no choice but to look at her. At forty-one years old, she looked every bit her age. Her titian hair was fading, pewter replacing the blonde highlights, and she had it pulled back in a tight, low ponytail, which only served to exaggerate the severity of her frown. The lines around her eyes had deepened, and a permanent scowl had etched itself into her face. The warm amber eyes I remembered from when we were children were long gone, replaced by a life that had not always been easy, or kind. Where Denise is concerned unhappiness is a euphoric stockholder.

“Oh no. I think it’s exactly the time and place,” she said. “And you’re going to listen to all I have to say.”

Jesi Scott is an aspiring writer of novels, a poet, and blogger. She has guest-blogged over at The Well-Tempered Bards, and has a post featured at For Love Of…. Jesi has two poems published in Memories of Mist, a literary anthology, and one published story in a newsletter. She is currently working on releasing her first poetry collection as well as writing her first novel. When not writing, Jesi can be found getting lost in bookstores, singing and dancing around the house, experiencing culture with friends, and generally having fun with her four sons when they aren’t driving her weeping into her closet, which she calls her Padded Cell. She loves to rescue stray bookmarks, as well as books, and has opened her heart to any and all stories needing a home. Archery is her current favorite thing ever but you might want to stand back a little as she still has a tendency to drop the bow occasionally.

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