Kristine E. Brickey

 Yesterday, all signs pointed to another shitty day in a row of rather shitty days. Not sleeping more than four hours for multiple nights can leave a gal pretty bitchy, especially when she’s not highly inclined to fight off the bitchiness or pretend to feel otherwise. It was sunny. Didn’t matter. Siding materials finally showed up. Didn’t matter. As I sat on my front porch, background noise of sawing and hammering as Aaron worked on my Brickhouse writing studio, even finishing the tale of the fabulous Lilian Boxfish, who I was certain was headed to an awful NYC death by mugging or old lady heart attack, didn’t matter.  I was, quite simply, feeling foul. I drove into town to return Boxfish and pick up Deacon King Kong, by the talented McBride, which I’d originally been hold number 27. Not even this could crack my grumpy shellac. I called a friend and asked if she could meet for a walk in our usual spot. Knew it was a longshot. Went to walk anyway, solo. Sat in the lot by the co...

It was a spring fed lake, manmade less than a hundred years ago. There shouldn’t have been a current, let alone an undertow. All of these thoughts raced through her mind even as Katrina felt herself pulled underneath the murky waters of Lake Manitoba. She knew not to fight, that water always won, deceptive in it’s calm exterior appearance while beneath the mirror smooth top hid deadly pulls.  Instead, Katrina closed her eyes and let her body go easily where the drag pulled her. She allowed her arms to go limp, dancing overhead, an unwitting, yet easy partner to the undertow’s guidance. As her lungs realized there would be no more air, Katrina saw images from her life pass through her brain. Who would care for her animals, once she was gone? Who would miss her? Would her body be found for burial, or would the depths of Lake Manitoba become her watery grave? As she felt her body fade, her arms floated to her sides and she realized she had stopped moving. Tipping her head back, she op...