writing

Barks Are Loud, but Snores Tell the Story: A Sitter’s Guide to Canine Melodies

~ Natal Galvan ~ Leave a comment

Don’t get me wrong, I know my “woofs.” As a dog sitter, I’ve learned that a bark is a language of its own. I can hear the difference between the “there’s a squirrel” yip and the “hey, I’m hungry” huff. But if you really want to know a dog’s soul? You have to listen to them sleep.
While barks have character, snores have personality. In my time pet sitting, I’ve found that snores are the ultimate “tell.” They are unique, often hilarious, and frequently make zero sense compared to the dog they’re coming from. It’s a symphony of sleep that I’ve come to recognize better than any wagging tail or pointed ear.

The Great “Size vs. Sound” Mystery

The most entertaining part of my job is the “Identity Crisis” snore. You’d think a dog’s sleep sounds would match their stature, but in the canine world, the physics of sound work a little differently.

  • The Delicate Giant: I’ve looked after massive, “ferocious” barkers, dogs with a deep, chest-rattling boom that sounds like a thunderstorm. Yet, when they hit the pillow? They emit the daintiest, softest little skips of breath you’ve ever heard. It’s like a tiny bird trapped in a bear’s body.
  • The Pocket-Sized Powerhouse: Then there are the tiny ones. I once sat for a dog no bigger than a loaf of bread who managed to out-snore my significant other. It wasn’t just a sound; it was a rhythmic, house-shaking roar that defied the laws of biology.

The “Snoreshelf”: A Field Guide

Every dog brings their own unique “instrument” to the sleep orchestra. Here are the most common ones I’ve encountered:

| Snore Type | The Sound | The Vibe |
| The Flutter-Leaf | A soft, rhythmic thrum-thrum of the lips. | Pure, unadulterated peace. |


| The Old Man Humbug | A series of low, grumbly sighs and nasal whistles. | Sounds like they’re complaining about the price of kibble in their dreams. |


| The Steam Engine | A heavy, chugging inhale followed by a dramatic “pfffft!” | Usually belongs to a dog who spent the day doing “big jobs” (like napping). |


| The Deflating Balloon | A high-pitched squeal that slowly fades out. | Hilarious, confusing, and totally endearing. |


Why the Noise Makes My Heart Melt

There is something so deeply rewarding about a dog snoring in your care. A bark is often a demand or a warning, but a snore? A snore is a compliment.
It means they’ve reached that level of deep, heavy REM sleep where they feel completely safe. When the house is quiet and I hear those bizarre, mismatched, and sometimes confusing nasal melodies, I can’t help but smile. They aren’t just sleeping; they’re telling me they’re home.
Barks might tell me what they want, but the snores tell me they’re happy.

The Bell, The Door, The Manager Who Wasn’t Ready

~ Natal Galvan ~ Leave a comment

When I dropped Ishka off at the groomer’s today, I found myself asking a very simple question: Why do some people wake up and choose unpleasantries? Like… is it a hobby? A lifestyle? A calling?

Our appointment was at 8 a.m. 

I arrived at 8:04, which, in dog‑parent time, is basically early. I’m juggling my purse, my keys, and a very excited Ishka who is doing full‑body wiggles in my arms. I sprint up to the automatic doors… and they don’t open. Not even a pity shudder. Just a cold, silent “no.”

This is confusing because they also book 7 a.m. appointments, which implies that human beings should be inside. I stand there for a solid five minutes, watching the cleaning crew zip past me like I’m a ghost they’ve sworn not to acknowledge. They’re doing Olympic‑level eye‑avoidance. I could’ve been holding a sign that said “HELP ME” and they still would’ve stared at the floor like it owed them money.

Fine. I go back to my car and call.

They answer immediately.

“Hi, I have an 8 a.m. appointment but the doors won’t open.”

“That’s because we’re closed. I’ll be right out.” 

Click.

No goodbye. No “hold on one moment.” Just a dial tone and the faint sound of my patience evaporating.

I look at Ishka, who has finally settled into a cozy little loaf in my arms, and apologize for the emotional whiplash she’s about to experience.

I walk back to the door, dodging puddles and salt piles like I’m navigating a booby‑trapped temple. The manager unlocks the door, looks at me, and says:

“Didn’t ring the bell?”

I blink. “Hi, good morning… I’m sorry… what?”

She gestures toward the world’s tiniest button: a microscopic dot all the way to the far right of the doors. Beneath it is an equally microscopic sign that says, Ring Bell During Off Business Hours. You would need a magnifying glass, a flashlight, and a prayer to notice it.

“You’re supposed to ring the bell,” she repeats, smiling at the neighboring business like she’s just solved world hunger.

“Well, no one mentioned a bell when I booked,” I say, already over this conversation. “But now I know for next time.”

I walk past her into the groomer’s office, where I’m greeted by a young woman who looks like she woke up ten minutes ago and lost the battle with her alarm clock. Honestly, same,  but I’m not the one holding scissors near someone’s dog.

Here’s my issue: 

If you’re going to schedule grooming appointments before business hours, maybe, just maybe, tell people about the secret doorbell. Send a text. Leave a voicemail. Train a carrier pigeon. Anything.

And if you’re the manager opening the store, maybe keep an eye on the door instead of assuming customers will magically intuit the existence of a button the size of a Tic Tac.

It blows my mind how often customers are treated like we’re inconveniencing a business by… going to the business. And spending money. Wild concept.

And don’t even get me started on mobile groomers. I’ve left voicemails. I’ve sent emails. I’ve practically begged. Not a single call back. At this point, I’m convinced mobile groomers are a myth, like unicorns, or people who enjoy folding fitted sheets.

What happened to customer service? When did sarcasm become the default setting? Why is kindness treated like an optional add‑on? The manager’s tone this morning was unnecessary, unhelpful, and honestly exhausting. Being rude takes effort. Being kind is free. And yet here we are.

Anyway, Ishka got her bath. I got a story. And next time, I’ll be ringing that microscopic bell like I’m summoning a butler in a Victorian mansion.

I Wish I Woulda Known:

The Writer's Desk
~ Natal Galvan

Majoring in Creative Writing

Navigating the whirlwind of choosing a college and a major is no small feat. While I didn’t head straight to college after high school, when I finally applied, I found myself uncertain about my future path. My love for reading and writing was undeniable, but the advice from the adults around me was clear: you don’t need a university degree to be a writer.

 “Choose something else you like that has benefits and longevity!” So, I decided on Forensic Psychology.

I was 20 when I first stepped foot inside a college classroom. Living on my own in a new state and juggling two jobs (one full-time from 6 am to 3 pm and a part-time from 4 pm to 10 pm) left me with little time to breathe. The long work hours, combined with the heavy course workload, quickly left me feeling overwhelmed and unsatisfied, and craving something more from my experience.

Math was a significant challenge for me, I had to take remedial math three times before I was even able to get into my required math coursework. While my major classes were engaging, I couldn’t shake the recurring question: is this really the career path I want to forever take?

Ultimately, after some honest self-reflection, I decided to quit. I ended up dropping out of school in my junior year.

In the beginning, life was great. I made money and was able to travel a bit, yet every time I returned home to my everyday life, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. I yearned for a sense of achievement, the fulfillment of pursuing something that truly belonged to me. By this point, I was in my early 30s and had learned a lot about myself. I knew I was a lover of words and stories. I realized that my experiences could be valuable to others if I could find a way to share them. Despite my age and being out of the academic loop for so long, something inside me urged me to give school another try. What would it hurt? But this time, I would focus on writing, no matter how silly people thought I was being. I just wanted to write and become better at it.

When I made the decision to return to school, I anticipated gaining knowledge to support my aspirations as a writer. However, I did not foresee the extensive learning I would encounter, extending far beyond the realm of writing. My education has not only honed my craft but also equipped me with essential skills in self-promotion, marketing, and networking. These valuable lessons have empowered me to navigate the literary world with confidence and creativity.

For example, a social media marketing class (one I was reluctantly taking) inspired me to take a significant step by deleting all my personal social media accounts and replacing them with more professional platforms. This class encouraged me to critically evaluate my objectives as a writer, my target audience, and how to engage with them effectively. Who woulda thunk it!?

Despite this new direction, I often feel out of my depth. As someone who is not particularly tech-savvy and has historically avoided social media, the commitment required to remain relevant on these platforms felt overwhelming. The continuous need to post personal updates seemed unproductive and detracted from my current activities. Nonetheless, through the lens of a professional, a writer, I now understand that engaging with readers through these platforms serves an essential purpose.

Transitioning from personal social media accounts to establishing a professional presence hasn’t been easy, at times, struggling to see how I can “catch up” with my peers.

For instance, I aimed to start with a Bookstagram/BookTube account, using the platforms to push book reviews for my target audience. After researching how book reviews approached this process, I intended to enroll in programs to receive ARC books. Unfortunately, most of these programs require a certain number of followers to be considered, and even meeting this criterion does not guarantee selection.

Of course, there are other important points that I’ve learned ever since my return to school. Here are a few of them listed I no order of importance, because they ALL ARE:

  • The Power of Consistency: Many writers wish they had understood earlier that writing regularly, even in small amounts, is more effective than waiting for inspiration to strike.
  • Building a Portfolio is Key: Starting early to create a diverse portfolio of work is essential. This can include short stories, essays, poems, and other forms of writing. A strong portfolio will be invaluable when applying for jobs or graduate programs.
  • The Importance of Reading and Writing Widely: Reading a diverse range of genres and authors can significantly enhance writing skills and creativity. Exposure to different styles and perspectives broadens a writer’s toolkit. Experimenting with various forms of writing, such as fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and screenwriting, can broaden skills and open up new creative avenues. It also helps in discovering one’s preferred style and genre.
  • Networking Matters: Building relationships within the writing community can open doors, provide support, and offer valuable feedback. Networking can be as important as the writing itself.
  • Understanding the Business Side: Knowing the basics of publishing, marketing, and contracts can save a lot of time and frustration. It’s beneficial to learn about the industry early on.
  • Feedback is Gold: Constructive criticism from trusted sources can be incredibly valuable. Learning to seek and accept feedback early can accelerate improvement.

The significance of peer reviews cannot be underestimated. Throughout my developmental years, any time I shared my writing with those around me, I received positive feedback. In retrospect, it appears that either they were overly generous and most likely feeding me boloney or simply lacked proper critique skills.

In the context of academic peer review, there are established guidelines that must be followed. Feedback is not solely based on personal opinion but also on whether the writing meets specific criteria. During one such peer review of my short story, I received feedback indicating that my use of tenses and verbs was inconsistent throughout the narrative. This critique was not novel to me, and upon reviewing other evaluations, I recognized its validity. This feedback served as a valuable learning experience, and because of it, I decided to pursue a TEFL certification to improve my English skills which now also enables me to teach English as a foreign language.

With hindsight, I realize that if I had pursued formal education in writing from the beginning, I would have acquired substantial knowledge. The potential outcomes of such a path remain speculative. If I could tell my younger self one thing it would be to truly follow what makes you happy. That, if anyone comes around saying “Choose something else you like that has benefits and longevity!” Tell them no. Tell them, that whatever makes your heart happy is beneficial and will last you longer than anything else that’s “reasonable.” And remember that life is not a sprint; it is about the journey, so make it a point to enjoy yours.

The Return

~ Natal Galvan

If you can’t learn to roll with Life’s punches than can you be happy?

No. Absolutely not.

In the last year alone I have gone through so many different type of life’s scenarios, most of which haven’t worked out for me, or have they? One stage of life or event has lead me to the next one, and that one, leading me to the next one. Experiences galore is what has been my life lately and although I could complain, why would I? I’m just rolling with the punches, if you can even call them that.

I have switched jobs more often in the last year than I have in the entire later part of my 20’s. 5 different jobs in the last 12 months to be exact. I’ve lived in 4 different apartments, seriously dated three different men, and have met and dropped “new friends” more often than I care to count. Yet, to be totally honest, I would not change a single fucking thing. Like I stated earlier, every person, place, or situation has taken me somewhere else and as a traveler and “experiencer” of life why would I want anything different? There is no pain that I would want to unfeel. There is no pleasure that I would want to avoid simply because it could have lead to a moment of displeasure later on.

I love to feel it all. It feeds my writing. Feeling is fuel for my soul…

Yet, in the last few weeks I have barely written down any of these moments of experiences than for tiny snippets in my journal. I have been so enthralled with life and it’s craziness that I haven’t had the energy to try to place all my experiences and thoughts about them down on paper.

“Life has been so crazy..” what an excuse for not finding the time to write. In reality even if life is crazy, does it truly stop us from doing what we love? Or is it just us? Are we the crazy ones for getting in our own way and as typical human being we decide to blame something else that is bigger than us for our own demise and pitfalls? I guess it depends on who you ask. I have had the time to write. It is not because Life is crazy… If you ask me, I believe we are the crazy ones. It is not life.

Life is simple and beautiful. There is a mysterious science to how it works day in and day out. We are the underlying variable that make this experience in life one way or another. We are the stormy winds that propel an experience in a either positive direction or a negative one. We are the placid waters that stay still and unaffected until we decide if one event or another causes us to be overtaken by ripples.

Am I crazy? I guess it depends on who you ask.

I am always looked at as crazy. If you ask my friends, I am crazy in a good way. I go for what I want no matter what that means. I am unpredictably fun, funny, spontaneous, with disappearing just enough here and there to keep them always wanting more.

If you ask strangers, all of which I just mentioned, makes me crazy in a bad way, but that is because they do not know me, which makes me in turn say: Who the fuck cares about your opinion anyway? Someone else may, not me.

I am Life. I am my life. I am this life.

No, I haven’t written much about it recently. Be prepared though, because Life has surely blessed me with enough material…

It’s only now that I actually have the energetic sanity to write about it.

Bluntly Upon My Sleeves

~ Natal Galvan ~ 2 Comments

You are completely mistaken.

It wasn’t because you were doing well and then all of the sudden you weren’t. White Lies. You were never doing well. It just took me a while to figure out that you were badly put together. Taped in lies, out seeped the truth.

The best revenge is that which is written down on paper.

And while neither of us are perfect, never did I try to sweep dirt under the rug. Confronting and communicating is all that I ever tried to do. Giving up is what that led to, for I always found myself speaking alone. All the time alone.

You say that behind curtains I hide but that too is simply not the truth.

Who I wear bluntly upon my sleeves is the heart of who I am. That does not mean that I am not nicked, dented, or imperfect and as time wears on, those who stand beside me find out my deepest stories, understanding each flaw.

Because I was not perfect, as perfect as your eyes betrayed you to see, you retreated in your hermit shell, instead of trying to understand me. Once again running… You ran from who we are as individuals, you ran from who we could have been as a team.

While running you ran into the arms of the exact demons that have kept you in hiding for so long. The Devil’s Brew. There you dance with the devil to the melody of a dangerous song. You have lost yourself over time and now deeper in the hole you seem to be, and although your rants and raves fall deaf to me, through the grapevine your messages have been received. Everything that you say is said because you’re sour. Everything you write is written as a coward because again you hide behind the strength of a bottle.

So yes, disappearing is what I had to do. Why run the risk of coming across this doppelganger you? This venomous character who I am just only now getting to know? Do you now realize that what you reap is too what you sow? All of those uncalled for words have hurt,  so you think I am just going to let it roll, us remain friends, let you say bye to my dog?

You should understand me now enough to know that I refuse to house hostility in my heart. I keep negativity at bay and I always remove any toxins that affect my life. Unfortunately this called for the removal of you.

Someday, once the pain subsides, once your mind is clear, and your soul is back to feeling right, you’ll see and understand why. Until then, if that day were to ever present itself, I wish you well. I pray that you get clear so you can see all that the Universe has for you in reach. I pray for your soul to feel free, and that when you someday choose to shoot for the stars, there you find what you so desperately seek.

DSCF4671 (3).JPG

Photo Credit: Angie M. Muse: Natal Galvan

Giving More FXS

~ Natal Galvan

For that split second…

for that “flick of two fingers” split of a second he thought to himself,

“What the fuck are you doin’?” It was the perfectly phrased question when thinking about his life. The question only popped up into his mind once while he fucked her. But now every time they hung out, which seemed much more often than he was currently comfortable with, the question danced in his mind.

What was he doing with his life? What were his goals? He’s got dreams and fantasies, but what are his goals? A better question would even be what was he doing with her? Someone so grounded and career driven. A woman, he felt, was way out of his league. Not because he wasn’t “worth” it but because she’d never give him the proper time of day. He could provide a roof over their heads, cover the major bills, and still have enough to go out on the town with friends for some smooth jazz and whiskey. Still, all this without a socially accepted title, is an embarrassment.

For a split second…

for a split “blink of an eye” second he thought about leaving her. He still thinks he just might. Just let her sit there at the table waiting. Her deep red recently polished nails fidgeting with the white linen napkin that sat in her lap. His soul is much more valuable than some swanky new job title he’d now have to accept in order to meet her unspoken standards. He peered at her through the crack of the bathroom door. He had direct view.

She was beautiful there was no doubt about it. That kind of beauty that takes your breath away without registering why first. Her eyes were kind and you knew her soul was full of love, with just a tint of sadness. She was relateable and within seconds she could make friends of strangers. She was that kind of beauty. Yet, because of that very beauty he was almost ready to run past their table and out back towards the kitchen doors.

How horrible would it feel for him to have to live with such judgment, mostly self imposed, and such pressure? How would he measure up in her eyes? Could he ever be her equal? He would most likely feel second at best.. *Push yourself* something internally whispered.

She instantly turns her head towards the direction of where the men’s bathroom lies. He knows she cannot see him but he can see her fully now. That face, that stare, slowly taking his fear away. He snaps out of whatever absurd thought he was in the middle of having and straightens himself up before heading out the very doors he was just hiding behind. The look on her face spoke volumes. She was waiting for him and he could not keep her waiting any longer. Without her knowledge she had injected him with courage and he walked towards her fearless. Anything can happen. She loved him, he saw that in the flicker of her eyes as he approached their table. This story could turn into “happiness ever lasting”  just as easy as it could end in tragic heartbreak, but he gave a fuck and that’s why he won’t be running away. He cares about knowing the outcome to this story. He gives so much of a fuck that he will trek the journey and see to it he strives hard for a positive outcome.

He wont let fear govern his life, nor love, because he wants to live and he wants to love. Simply because he gives a fuck.

Before he reaches his chair, he slowly walks over towards hers. He reaches down, one hand wraps under her chin tilting her head up, and he swoops down like a vulture, taking her mouth in to his. He kisses her passionately but only for a quick beat, and then he lets her face go and goes to sit in his chair, not once taking his eyes off of hers. A slight smirk revealed itself, her red lips still perfectly painted, perking up in the corners. He waved their server over and ordered a second bottle of wine. Their finest, her favorite.

He’s got this….

What Does It Feel Like..

~ Natal Galvan ~ 1 Comment

..to be you? Because to be me feels like…

I’m going somewhere slowly… very slowly, but at least I’m going somewhere, right?

Sometimes I feel exhausted and defeated. There are moments where I feel like the heavy weight of absolutely nothing is hanging on my shoulders and it’s a struggle to put one foot in front of the other.

Sometimes to be me feels like I’m competing against other people and their standards. It is almost as if I am continuously trying to live up to the goals and aspirations that others dream up for me, all the while I wishfully day dream of my own.

There are moments that being me feels like I am the strongest most powerful woman in the world. I feel as though there isn’t one thing any one person could say or do to make me feel less than bright. I shine during these moments like a diamond in the light.

There are times when being me feels like the most rewarding gift life has given me because even though I have lived a semi tough life, I wouldn’t  ever want to switch my life for anyone else’s.

To be me feels nomadic. It feels adventurous and spontaneous, with added slight flickers of instability. To be me feels like a whirlwind of the good, the bad, the ugly, and the beautiful.

To be me feels daunting yet refreshing.

To be me feels contradictory and imperfect. So much so that it’s completely perfect.

To be me makes me happy.

Now tell me… What does it feel like to be you?

 

 

Closet Crazy

~ Natal Galvan

*** Fictional Story***

Tick… Tick… Tick… Tick.

Only about thirty more ticks to go from my authentic grandfather clock that sits gallantly in the corner before I can slowly end this session.

Everyday I sit in this blue chair, with my freshly ironed dry cleaned clothes, polished loafers, and perfectly combed hair. I face my client while holding my notepad and pen and jot down anything I feel like I should be jotting down. It’s more for show actually. I scribble down things like their posture, words or phrases I notice them subconsciously using, ticks they may have, even when they’re lying to me. I always know when they’re lying to me. When you’ve studied people for as long as I have, it becomes second nature to spot a lie.

Most of my clients are good people. Their lives are usually quite boring which leads them to deal with their boring lives in a destructive manner. Each case different in the manner they go about getting rid of the monotony their lives have become. All similarly ending in destruction. This is why they come looking for me.

I listen to their pitiful stories. All complain, some of them while yelling. Others spend their entire session crying out without even saying an understandable word. Most of the time I just sit there and listen. I listen without having to really listen to them. During most of my sessions my brain runs on complete autopilot. I tune into the “important” parts and tune out the fillers with important thoughts of my own.

Today has been a busier day than usual. I started off my morning with a 22 year old girl who has sexual fantasies of being with an older man, a man who much resembles to that of her father. That session was followed by a husband who’s wife recently uncovered his severe gambling and cocaine addiction and gave the the ultimatum to seek help or leave. After him followed a 5th grade English teacher who absolutely hated his job and who’s never experienced a romantic relationship in his entire life. He’s 53 years old and since our last session has secretly begun diving into the depths of the deep dark web in search of deep dark fantasies. Their issues are typical for their individual circumstances. With each case I end our sessions with prescribing them drugs to help them “cope” with their issues but to be honest, they were all much more sane before they started to come to see me. Before the drugs.

Western medicine has never been my thing. When I say “my thing” I mean you will never catch me taking any type of Western medication. Garbage is the word that comes to mind when thinking about man made medicine. I am more of a meditation and homeopathic remedies man myself, yet I cannot deny the amount of money one can make by pumping patients with garbage. When done right, one can keep sick people sick, and make a killing doing so. No pun intended. So I prescribe them this, then I’ll mix it up and tell them to take that. Never once do they debate the advice given to them. As long as I listen and prescribe, that’s all they care about. I give them exactly what they want. I dope them up to help them better deal with the harsh realities of life. Realities that for the most part were self inflicted. They never question the possible side effects of what has been prescribed to them neither the long term nor short. They don’t ever question the motives one may have when prescribing such garbage, neither big nor small. No explanations are ever needed. Just a piece of paper with a solution to a symptom and a signature and off they go.

I run a very small and very private practice so there is really no one I have to answer to other than the board. Not once have I ever had to answer to the board. In fact, in order for a patient to be even seen by me you first have to be referred by someone on the “inside”, then verified by me personally. This means full background check. I look into their old medical files, their criminal record if they have one, and dive deep into their most personal affairs. Finding out a patient’s deep and darkest secrets is key to having complete dominance over them. I makes it easier to keep them eating out of your hand.

Funny, I wonder how quickly things would change if any one of my clients found out the truth of the deep dark secret I, myself, hide. A lie that stares them in the face session after session. A sick truth that patients are too blinded by their own issues to see. I thrive over that advantage I have over them. The advantage of being able to see what lies before me because unlike them, I have no issues of my own to deal with. My issues aren’t “issues” instead they are a beautiful way of life.

I am not here to help my patients. I am not here to make them feel better.  To keep my small practice small but yet thriving I make sure to keep the minds of my patients sick. I keep them coming back for more. Their repeat illness allows for my small business to make money. A visibly thriving practice and a polished look  helps disguise the truth that lies within my mind, soul, and basement. How else would I keep my secret a secret? A handsome family man, who is financially well off, and never tires to try to “better” society through is profession. There is no better cover than that.

“It amazes me how day after day you deal with the crazies, only to try to better their lives and make the world an easier place to live in. For them and us. That’s so honorable of you…” is what friends and family say.  I can only imagine the look on their faces if I told them the truth. That no, I could care less about bettering humanity. The simple truth was that dealing with the “crazies” made me appear to be normal.

I wrap up the second half of my day with two more appointments. I close up shop as the sun begins to set, and head straight home to my wife. I find her in the kitchen, happily awaiting my arrival, plating my homemade dinner that was still nice and warm.

Tonight our daughter is working her part-time shift at the mall and won’t be home for hours. I choose to dedicate this time to my wife because meeting her needs keeps her off my back.  “Happy wife, Happy life” isn’t that how the saying goes? So I ask her about her day and although I could give a shit about what this stay at home housewife has done with it, I pretend to listen. Again, mind on autopilot. Throughout our one way conversation, I make sure to interrupt her and compliment her on her cooking skills, calling her below average meal, delectable. With a final wipe of my napkin, I stare her deep into her eyes, and tell her how ravishing she looks, even after a long day like she’s had today. I then reach across the table and kiss her almost animalistically and with one quick swoop, I pick her up and take her to the bedroom where I make love to her passionately. I make sure she is exhaustedly pleased, and soon enough we both are. After much unwanted pillow talk, I get up and make her a nice cup of her favorite bedtime tea. Only  after she drinks the cup in its entirety, and her snores begin to fill the air around me, am I free to become the rawest version of myself.

I wait a few beats before I make my way out of the bedroom, gently closing the door behind me. I don’t worry about my wife waking up. Not after grinding up three melatonin pills and slipping them into her already potent tea. Guiltlessly I make my way through our rustically decorated home, and shut off all the lights, only leaving the driveway light and hallway light on. A guide for when my daughter arrives. With the house dark and quiet my daughter never assumes I’m still awake. She believes I am in the room with her beloved mother, gaily spooning each other until morning. She has no idea that night time is my time.

I make my way past the kitchen and towards the door that leads down into the basement. I open it and instantly am hit with the cold that creeps up from the darkness below. I quickly find myself reaching into my pocket for my penlight. I descend the stairs quickly and point the light towards the bookcase that is randomly placed against the wall. As I reach the bookcase, I place the penlight back into my pocket. I push the heavy bookcase to the side and lift the old, dusty rug it stood on, exposing the trap door that it hid beneath it. Just simply seeing the trap door and knowing the secret that it held inside made my heart race and my dick hard.

With a strong tug I lift the trap door and once I find the proper footing on the thin iron steps, I allow for the door to come back down, lowering it gently back into place. I am again engulfed by darkness. It swallows me whole, heightening all of my senses, including that of smell. I have grown accustomed to the musky smell that this place gives off. The smell is now one that soothes me. It makes me feel at home. I slowly climb down the stairs waiting for my foot to hit the ground and once it does, I take my penlight from my pocket and point it towards the door that stands at the very end of the hall. I quickly cut down the hall, anticipation rising deep within my chest, reaching the door in seconds. I grab the door knob and twist to open. No lock needs to be undone for although what lies on the other side of this door is locked in, the side I stand on is always free, allowing me to come and go without having to fumble with a lock and key.

I open the door slowly and as I step in, I admire what lies in front of me…..

 

Sirens of Change

~ Natal Galvan

I can still here the sirens echoing in the background. The images of hysteria play back in my mind. To think, two decades have passed since then.

A warm and bright afternoon in July, my family from Boston had been in town visiting. It was always an exciting time when they came to visit. My aunt, an incredible cook of Colombia’s finest cuisine, my uncle the funniest and happiest man I had ever known. The two of them had two kids, my cousins, and for the most part we all got along pretty well. Leon was the oldest of the two and was awesome to hang around with. He treated me as his equal although he was 5 years older than I was. He had the humor of his father and the kind heart of his mother. Veronica, his sister, was only a couple year older than me, and by far, way cooler. Growing up, she was who I wanted to be. Anytime our families got together, my sister and I would tag along with her as if we were playing follow the leader. My sister, who was four at the time, followed because it was in her nature to. I followed because all I wanted to do was learn to be cool too.

On this particular day, my cousin Veronica and I were out in the yard laying on the grass, contemplating on what to do with our day. I was never the one out the the two of us to come up with any ideas for I never had any cool ones to come up with. I would take the backseat and follow her lead. This is why I was shocked when an innocent comment on my part, evolved into a moment that would change my life forever.

“I’m in the mood for some sour gummy worms.” I thought to myself out loud. Veronica shot up and mentioned what a great idea that was. “Wait, what idea??” I was clueless.

Instantly a plan was concocted to somehow obtain some money and head over to the store to buy ourselves some candy. Half of our plan was easy, getting to the store. We would just walk there. Sure, it was dangerous. We had to cross an intersection, four lanes of traffic flowing both ways, but all we needed to do was look both ways before we crossed. No biggie. The other half of our plan is what needed tweaking. How would we get money to buy candy? We couldn’t ask our parents. They’d want to know why we needed the money which would lead them to find out we were heading to the store. They’d never just let us walk there.

At that very moment her and I were brainstorming, a neighbor of mine pulls into her parking spot just a few doors down from where we lived. She was the nicest lady ever and I remembered back then I always wondered why she lived alone. That’s when I was struck by another “brilliant” idea. Apparently the second one of the day, I was on a roll. I explained to Veronica that all we had to is get the lady to chit chat with us, we would bring up the fact that it was our friend’s birthday and that we wanted to get to the store to buy her a birthday card and some candy but that we had no money. I was almost sure that the lady would give us some. I wasn’t sure if the plan was full proof but it wouldn’t hurt to try.

By mere luck, or very good acting, we had gotten the lady to donate $10 to the cause. After explaining to her that our parents never had money, her look of pity fell upon us, and due to the fact that she had nothing smaller than a 10 dollar bill in her wallet, let us have it in order to “make your friend happy”.

We couldn’t have grabbed the money any quicker when we heard my mom’s voice calling for us. I stashed the money in the pocket of my neon blue shorts as we walked up to our porch where my mother stood.

“There you two are,” she smiled. “Take your sister to play with you. But don’t go where I can’t keep an eye out for you.” I began to debate immediately. I didn’t want my sister to tag along. This was bull crap.

There’s no arguing with mom… ever. With a frown on my face and heavy stomps of my feet, the final signs of rebellion, the three of us headed down the steps, and only when my mother had gone back inside had we redirected ourselves towards the store.

The walk towards the store, reaching the intersection, those moments feel like a blur to me. Blurry snapshots of events that seem unimaginable, but that happened. One moment the three of us are giggling at nothing in particular, discussing what kind of candy we were all to get. The next moment, we’re almost to the intersection when my sister, who I was holding hands with at the time, pulls from my grasp and darts out and away from of me laughing playfully, her giggles still echoing in my ear.  The world slowed down at that very second.

A small blue car. High pitched screeching. A man runs up to me, he’s so blonde he looks like the sun, and he’s yelling.

“Where’s your mother????!!!…” and he then runs off again. I watch him to see where he runs to when I see the tiny little mound of flesh lying in the street that is my sister. She’s shouting out for my mom, her shouts then over powered by emergency sirens.

It was a miracle that my sister lived. I believe that the fact that she was so small is why she hadn’t been completely destroyed by a car that was going over 50 miles per hour. Her tiny body had been launched almost 50ft. She had broken both legs, lost most of her baby teeth, and had severe road rash to most of her body.

This phase of my life had been full of guilt and sorrow. So much so that today a lot of it still remains in the corners of my heart, shadowing the depths of my mind, only to be felt when I decide to let my guard down. It’s a pain that I will never truly lose for I feel as though I am a big reason as to much of the suffering my sister has had in the past. Even though I feel as though my sister is my twin soul and that our relationship with one another has been lived out through multiple past lives, creating much of the bond that we have today, I know that this tragic even that happened more than two decades ago has bonded us even tighter than we have ever been in any life before.

At the age of 8 is when I discovered tragedy and what it could mean for someone to lose a life. It had been the first time I got to experience first hand pure sadness and guilt knowing that I played a major part in someone  else’s physical and emotional pain. Trauma has made its way into my mind and has camped there for years. Today it’s hard for me to causally cross a street without imagining death lurking there, waiting for me.Today I still cope with what happened all those years ago with flashbacks and anxiety. Still it is a moment in life that I am grateful to have gone through, because no matter how much pain it’s dressed up in, there is a good that is greater than all the darkness it has shadowed. A beautiful light that was bestowed upon a horrific disaster. It took my sister over a year to fully recover. Today she is the most beautiful and loving person I know. She radiates the room when she walks into it with her smile. Today you would never even have imagined that she went through such an ordeal.  Today I am blessed to have her.

040-2 Photo Credit: Natal Galvan, Muse: Natal Galvan, Angie M.