Creative Nonfiction

How to Get Ready for a First Date After Three Decades
(this could take a while so make sure you plan accordingly)

By Angelique Burns

1. PANIC… I mean say YES!

Say it out loud…. To him, this is a very important place to start because unless he is a psychic, you’re going to be stuck in your prettiest black dress watching the clock waiting for him to show up. You may as well date your dog at this point.

2. STOP second guessing yourself!

You said yes, and yes. He really does want to go out with you, or he wouldn’t have asked. Your dog agrees, just look at that goofy grin she’s giving you.

3. SHOP for a dress!

Don’t even look in that closet. You haven’t dated in 30 years, only lil’ fluffy over there wagging her tail at you appreciates your faded Freddie Kruger night gown and fuzzy slippers.

4. BUY the damn thing already!

No more self-doubt, you’re running out of time. The dress is perfect, he didn’t ask the dress out; he asked you out.

5. ACCESSORIZE!

Find jewelry to match the dress, stockings, (thigh highs or shapewear? So many choices!) Purse or clutch? Are you going to put your hair up or let it down? Do you even have hair clips nice enough to wear with the dress? Back to the internet you go!

6. PRIMP and PAMPER

• Haircut and color
• Manicure …
  oh, shit do you have shoes to match the dress?
  crap they are open toe…add to the list…..
• Pedicure
• Shave…
  or should you wax? What’s in fashion now? Bikini line? Brazilian?  Consider looking up what men like…. Is Cosmopolitan still a thing? Is it too soon to think of those things? Best to be ready just in case.

7. SECOND GUESS yourself

No, no, no shut that voice up unless you plan on fluffy being the only companion to share your bed with for the rest of your life.  

8. CHECKING IT TWICE

• Go over your list and make sure you have time for everything.
• What needs appointments?
• What needs more time for you to work through your issues and insecurities prior to you checking it off the list.
•  (do not add things to the list you’ve already completed just so you have something you can check off!)

9. YOU MADE IT!

Your list is complete, you managed to not talk yourself into canceling, you’ve suffered through that hot wax, and the embarrassment of what you imagined the wax stylist must be thinking, you’ve spent your months budget on getting here.

Right here at this moment.

You’re dressed and ready!

You are confident!

Awe, look at that, fluffy is encouraging you on with a lopsided grin, as you hear his car pull up.

OMG!

You should have discussed the details in more detail.

You’re in an elegant black dress he is in jeans and a 90’s rock concert tee.

You both laugh.

The ice has broken.

It’s going to be ok; this is going to be nothing more than a funny anecdote for future story telling.

https://2025.bailysbeads.org/how-to-ready-for-a-date/

My Favorite Shirt

By Randy Mong

I found my favorite shirt at the mall. I was fifteen. It was a simple shirt, nothing out of the ordinary, not even a graphic on the front like everything I wore at the time. A pink halter tank top. It was out of season for the dead of winter, which explained the clearance section. But it had a built-in bra.

“Can I get this?” I asked my mom.

“You sure can,” my mom said after a brief glance at the shirt on the hanger, her smile small.

I wore the shirt the next day. And then, I wore it practically every moment after that when I spotted that it was clean.

I was seventeen when I wore it on a date with a boy. He wasn’t handsome, wasn’t out of the ordinary, absolutely nothing special. Kind of like my shirt.

Later, my friends would insist that dating him had been an “act of public service” to make me smile. Maybe it was. But he made me feel like I was like a real girl my age.

He was three years older than me.

I didn’t tell my mom about the date. She thought I was at a sleepover. I guess it was one, just not the kind she thought. He didn’t compliment my shirt, just tugged it over my head by the hem while we kissed. I didn’t mind. He complimented me plenty in lots of other ways. I went to lots of sleepovers that year.

The shirt now made me feel a little guilty, phantom pinpricks of disgust crawling up my back. I didn’t wear it as much anymore.

I was eighteen when I watched my mom unfold my favorite shirt as we unpacked my things. I was moving into my dorm. When we shared our final hug, my throat thick and my eyes stinging, she told me that she was a phone call away. I wouldn’t see her again until Christmas break. I sobbed for an hour after she left.

Until he texted me. I’m outside.

When I told him I was going to Erie for college, it wasn’t long before he conveniently had living arrangements. Of course, I was elated. No long distance. Besides, it was easier to hide our relationship if we weren’t in town. Technically, it wasn’t illegal anymore, but still.

I was teary eyed when I climbed into the passenger seat of his car.

“Think of it this way,” he soothed. “You’re on your own. Free to do whatever you want.” It’s ironic, looking back on that moment now, because that was the start of my prison sentence.

My favorite shirt eventually became my party shirt. It wasn’t my choice; it was just the one he tossed at me when he was getting me ready. I didn’t mind. I never minded anything. He always made sure I was at least a couple of shots deep, tipsy enough to pull on the shirt and flimsily tie the strings and go.

I was wearing my favorite shirt the first time he had hit me in the quiet of my dorm room, my bloody mouth aching as vodka-tainted breaths left me in tiny, frightened gasps.

The splash of pink on the hanger in my closet started to make me sick.

No more memories of my mother and I at the mall. No more compliments. Only misery and terror. But I couldn’t make myself get rid of it.

I told him I lost it in the wash.

I was almost nineteen when the semester ended. I had packed my favorite shirt away, determined to never look at it again. We didn’t break up, not yet. He moved to Texas with his parents, unable to afford to live on his own anymore. He somehow managed to keep his talons dug into me for another year.

I stayed at home. The idea of stepping back on that campus filled me with terror that rattled my bones and dread cold enough to freeze my blood.

I broke up with him in June. Over text.

I was going to Pitt Bradford in August, and I knew I had to let him go. Or make him let me go. I guess there’s a difference.

I was twenty when I was scrambling to pack for my first semester back at college. I was surrounded by piles of clothes, falling victim to my overpacking gene yet again. Thanks Mom. She held something up in the corner of my eye, and I glanced over. My breath got clogged in my throat as I stared at the pink fabric of my ex-favorite shirt pinched between her fingers. She didn’t know, and still doesn’t.

I have never told her.

“Do you want this? I found it buried in your old stuff.”

To my surprise, I hesitated in my answer. A month ago, I would’ve told her to burn it. Who could blame me? But then the thought of that made me angry. That was my favorite shirt. How much would he continue to take from me?

Nothing. Never again.

“Pack it.” 

https://2025.bailysbeads.org/my-favorite-shirt/

Self-Destruct

By Ambria Richardson 

The only thought that came to my mind, while reading this statement, was wonder. “What is it that can be learned about the world that would make something self-destruct upon realization?” 

In hindsight, asking my mother to attend one of my therapy sessions was a mistake. I was looking around the car anxiously, with my breath speeding up with each of her prying questions and declarations of pride when it happened.  In order to keep from yelling at her to be quiet, I repeatedly touched my fingertips, one at a time, with my thumb. I could still hear her, so I began counting in my mind: one, two, three, four. My counting was synchronized with the touching pattern of my fingers and thumb. Still, it didn’t drown out her loud, rougher voice. Finally, in a last-ditch effort to get her to stop talking, I invited her to my next therapy session. I knew that she wouldn’t turn it down, but it might make her stop talking. It worked.  

The following Friday, my mother was sitting in my psychologist’s small office. The bright hospital-white LEDs in the ceiling were turned on instead of just the usual comforting, dim floor lamp that was normally turned on, providing the main light source of our sessions. The entire walk from the waiting room to her office, I didn’t speak outside of a quiet “hello” to my psychologist, Sarah’s cheerful greeting; my mother spoke enough for the both of us. In all honesty, I was glad that my mother talked a lot, because that meant the burden of conversation wasn’t on me. On the downside, it left my brain to wander. The longer the walk to the office, the more anxious I became. I wished that I had kept my mouth shut the week before. I felt betrayed by myself as I moved aside for my mother to get to the chair just inside the door to the small office, as I had allowed my safe space to be breached by the person that made me feel unsteady. It was only in that office, with Sarah, that I first felt a mother’s love directed towards me. I grew increasingly worried that my mother would somehow hear my past sobs from earlier sessions, or even worse, see my rants plastered in the air for her to read and pick apart in big red typeface, like a newspaper from hell. 

Sarah shut the office door as I lowered myself onto the fake white leather sofa across from her desk. As she passes me to sit at that desk, she gives me a small smile of encouragement, her eyes filled with pity. I knew that I was not as good at hiding fear as I was other emotions, and I felt that I might just die when I looked over at my mother, finding her dissecting my body language and facial expressions. I felt like I was a dead, rare insect that my mother had collected as a specimen, slowly pushing pins into my long dead limbs every time she blinked. Sarah finally made it to her desk and sat down, asking my mother how she felt I was behaving at home. My mother, never one to miss an opportunity to tarnish me, said that I was still “not making an effort in pre-calc”. Regardless of the uncomfortable ball growing in my throat, I felt brave in that office with Sarah there. I interjected that I was trying, but as I had told her before, Mr. K didn’t teach. Immediately, my mother insisted that I was lying. She said that she had spoken with Mr. K, and he said that I wasn’t doing homework. But Sarah, instead of entertaining what my mother said blindly, asked for my point of view. I explained that Mr. K didn’t teach, he didn’t assign any work. The only thing we did in class was watch YouTube videos, all of which were not math related. Furthermore, “what teacher would openly admit to the parent of one of his many failing students, that he was inept at his job?” When I said this, Sarah chuckled and looked at my mother, her eyes saying that I had made a convincing argument.  

As I spoke, I kept looking away from my mother’s eyes to look at Sarah. A part of me thinks the reason I kept looking at Sarah for some kind of reassurance, that someone believed what I said. She would be looking back at me, nodding periodically to show that she was actively listening. When I was done, my mother interrupted Sarah’s next question to inform her of my short-comings, that I had said that she “owed me” for giving birth to me. My last remaining bit of courage drained out of me when my mother began speaking over me.  

For the rest of the session, my mother spoke of how my sister and I had not only caused her to develop type-2 diabetes but had now caused us to be evicted from our apartment: we had failed inspection due to uncleanliness. And my mother had pictures of it all. The worst part was the kitchen. She pulled up pictures of the sink, filled to the brim with moldy dishes and thick, slimy water. There was brown, decaying food splattered everywhere, in every crevice of the sink and yellow Formica counter. The inside of the microwave was orange instead of white. Dead roach carcasses of varying age and size were on every surface. There was literal garbage on the floor, several inches thick and dense. Her pictures then moved into the main portion of the one-bedroom apartment, showcasing piles of clothes, toys, and trash so high that they almost reached the ceiling. In front of the couch, there was a pile on the floor so high it was almost level with the edge of the couch. The coffee table was completely covered. Although you can’t smell pictures, you could imagine how awful it would have to be.  

Every time my mother swiped a new photo, I would shift my gaze to Sarah’s face, looking for any sign that she might start to dislike me. I didn’t see anything, not even disgust for the filth shown in the photos, but I had already convinced myself that she hated me. 

I didn’t defend myself; my mouth tasted foul, and I was afraid that if I said something, I would make it worse. Finally, the session ended. My mother had taken up all the time, and Sarah’s next appointment was there, so there was no way for me to rebut what my mother had claimed, even if I was capable.  

The rest of the week leading up to my next appointment with Sarah, I thought about what my mother had told her. I was afraid that Sarah would look at me differently now, that she would believe my mother simply because my mother had instilled in me, early in life, that people would not believe me if she first told them that I was a liar. Finally, at my appointment, the first thing Sarah said to me was that I was a good person. I immediately started to cry, because I had spent my whole life listening to my mother’s stories, and I had believed them because no one had refuted them. I realized that it wasn’t the world that disliked me, it was my mother who was a narcissist who thrived on belittling her daughters. It felt like the light bulb had finally been turned just right so that it flickered on. I began to self-destruct. 

Death’s Hand

By Heather Ritts 

I would not say that Death and I are best friends, but we know each other well.  Today we are sitting together on the edge of this bridge, our flip-flop feet dangling over the side.  She’s been with me for a while now.  

I don’t remember when I first saw her. I know it was sometime in college. She was gray, ugly, and fat.  She followed me everywhere and reminded me how lonely and sad I was. She had me step on the scale at least two times a day and laughed at the number. She was so mean to me.  Even if I locked my dorm door, she still got in. I transferred to another school in a different state.  She found me.  

I didn’t know how to get away, so I decided to befriend her, and our relationship began.  We stayed out late and drank until we were numb. Sometimes I would wake up and not know where I was, but she was still there with me like a true friend.  She soon became my only friend.  Throughout my 20s and 30s I would try to make new friends or start a new project, but she would always be there to remind me that I wasn’t good enough, smart enough, or pretty enough. 

Death and I grew apart for a few years in my early 40s and for a moment I forgot about her.  When my brother died from an overdose, she came back to check on me like any good friend would.  She told me I could go see him and we discussed ways to get there. In the end I decided not to go. She reminded me that I was still a failure.     

My dad died last week. I am strong enough to go with her now. The wind is picking up and the red maple leaves are falling off the trees.  They float forever in the wind. I ask her how long I will float, and she says not long. I kick off my right flip-flop and watch it fall, I can’t tell if it hits the bottom. A crow hovers above and I remember the pet crow my brother and I had when we were little.  I see my brother’s bright smile. I let my other flip-flop drop and scoot closer to the edge. As I lift my arms, the wind surrounds me like a warm hug from my dad. Death’s hand touches my lower back and tells me we are ready.   

My phone rings. I forgot to silence the ringer. I look at the screen. It’s my son. I slide back and stand up.  She sighs and looks at me with her usual disappointment.  I walk barefoot off the bridge towards my car as I answer the phone.  I tell my son I can pick him up from baseball and that I will bring him his favorite Gatorade – blue.  I tell him that I love him before we hang up. 

She closes the back door of my car.  I can see the dark circles under my eyes and her reflection in the rearview mirror. Death says we will discuss this later. I tell her to please shut up because we need to go home to get another pair of shoes before going to the store.  I also tell her to remind me to pick up another gallon of milk.  

Dandelions

By Madyson Trama 

A dandelion seed can travel up to 100 kilometers (about 62.14 mi.) That little white fuzz that tickles your skin can travel everywhere. Not knowing where it is going to end up next, but still making the journey anyway. A dandelion seed stays put together, that is until a gust of wind or a curious individual looking to make a wish comes along to separate those seeds and make them disperse and find a new foundation just so a new journey can begin.  

I remember being that curious individual, a type of innocence that has seem to of gotten jaded along with time of each year that I have gotten older. Not because I’ve wanted it to come that way, but because it seems to be safer. To let old wounds scab over and learn from my past emotional injuries. That curious kid didn’t pay attention to the hard times or would let that pressure roll right off her shoulders. That’s what being a kid is all about, isn’t it? Not anymore though, that pressure hangs like the heaviest rain cloud in the darkest sky. I remember being that little girl who put her wishes on a dandelion. I remember being a little girl and whether it was at my house, my grandparents’ house, or anywhere that I saw these white, fuzzy plants that I just had to grab them. I would keep my eyes peeled for them and would get excited when they were in my view because that meant more chances for my wishes to come true. It did not matter to me if the dandelions were the soft grayish pappus or if it were the waxy, sun-colored one, they both got the job done in my mind and I could not wait to send them on their way.  

I did not think dandelions could represent so much for me that I could relate to a dandelion as much as I do, but despite their bad reputation that they are just “weeds” and they take up space that something more, “pleasing to the eye” could be growing in and overall, just being an undesirable plant to most, I still gravitated towards these sunflower related plants. Dandelions are a bit more relatable than we know of. I mean here is a seed that grows on this stem that is their home only to later leave that home and be sent on a journey that has them twisting and turning every second and going down paths that are completely new and foreign.  

The feeling of not knowing what your path has in store for you and where you are going to end up can be such a daunting thought. The unknown is something that’s always there and uncertainty is a feeling that can linger. Anxiety is worrying about the future and the future could be a scary picture to look at. As terrifying as it can be, like leaving home for the first time or changing your career path that you thought you were sure of, I forget to focus on all the positives that come from this new beginning. That I get to meet fresh faces and make new memories. The idea that really frightens me but excites me at the same time is setting my new foundation. A new foundation than what I am used to and not having those familiar individuals and experiences around me because this is my new journey. This is my time to see where I travel along the path that’s less traveled and whatever direction it takes me in, like the wind or that curious individual blowing that dandelion away, I know it is going to be an experience to remember.  

Dandelions represent hope, healing, and resilience. They are known for their ability to thrive in challenging conditions, returning again time after time pushing through the ground and making their presence known. If that doesn’t explain this crazy adventure that we call life, then I don’t know what does.  

Bug Bites

By Sara Micholas 

Penny forgot the bug spray, and as we trek through the woods, Zach becomes increasingly worried about my allergy to mosquitoes. I pay no mind; Penny is an adult, and adults know things. Mom trusts Penny, so I trust Penny. If she says it’s fine that we have no bug spray, then it’s fine. Besides, my mind is much more occupied with excitement about our journey – trailing through the woody outdoors to get to a creek Penny wants us to see. I feel like Bear Grylls, one with nature. I could care less about mosquitoes. Penny says they only come out at night, anyway, and its early afternoon on a hot summer day. It rained yesterday, but Penny says that means nothing to the mosquitoes because everything’s dry now from the sun, so it’s fine. Zach is not so convinced, but he too gets distracted by the excitement of being outside to think too much about it.  

By the time we get back home, my skin is red and blotchy. It itches and aches; some of the spots bloody from my fingernails scratching them. Some spots have an “x” pressed onto them – a thing my brother taught me to stop from scratching my bug bites. He looks over at me now, tells me to stop scratching. But the tone of his voice is worrisome, trembling. 

“Oh,” my mother says when Penny drops us off. She crouches down, gently grabbing my arm to examine where I’d been scratching. The stroke of her fingers against my big bites soothes my red and irritated skin. “What happened here?” 

“I got bit.” I respond. I try to scratch my arm again, but mom holds my hand in place. 

“I see that.” She says to me. She looks up to Penny behind me. “Did you forget bug spray?” 

Penny responds with some form of “yes,” but I’m too busy trying to subtly scratch my arm without mom noticing. I don’t have too many bug bites, I don’t think, but they’re annoying all the same. There’s at least two on each of my arms and three on one of my legs. I use my foot as a scratcher for those ones, balancing on my right leg.  

Zach hits my arm. “Stop!” 

I roll my eyes at him, annoyed. Mom has noticed now. She takes me to the bathroom and sits me on the edge of the sink. From the bathroom closet she takes out the med kit and pulls out the hydrocortisone. Hydrocortisone and I have been becoming real good friends this summer. It’s cold when mom puts it over my bites. When she’s done, she tells me not to scratch anymore and sends me off on my way. 

Later, I’m sitting in the living room eating ice cream when I overhear Zach and mom talking in the kitchen. 

“I told her,” Zach says, voice a little muffled by the wall. 

“I know you did. She said so.” My mom replies. “That was good of you.” 

“Even before we left, I told her.” 

“I know, Zach.” 

“Is Sara going to be okay?” 

“Yeah, she’s fine. They’re just bug bites.”