Why I’m No Longer Mad at Boulder, Colorado

Why I’m No Longer Mad at Boulder, Colorado

by Rasmenia Comment Closed
You can't go home again. That's what they say. Which is weird, because the truth is that you never really leave. Regardless of how many years or miles pass by, there's always a part of you trapped in that place. A splinter of home is forever lodged in your psyche.Home is a complicated thing. It isn't just a place. I'm not talking about those corny plaques that everyone's grandma has hanging in their kitchen that says something like, "Home isn't a place, it's a feeling." Or even worse, "Home is where the heart is." That's all too simple and trite. Especially if you've had many homes.One of those places wasn't my home at all. I never lived in Boulder, Colorado. And yet, I've long had a thorny relationship with the place.Curled up on the floor of my cramped bedroom in a little trailer park in Indiana, I drew one enormous picture after another of mountain scenes with my fat Crayola...
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Read the First Chapter of Tied Within

Read the First Chapter of Tied Within

by Rasmenia Comment Closed
Chapter 1: Entering We’re talking about nothing again when someone asks if I know what terror feels like. A familiar voice, an echo, reaches through the smoke. Behind the guitar assault grinding and growling though a blown speaker, I know someone is talking to me. I summon the effort to focus my attention on the voice’s face. “So, do you?” One of the twins, the one who parts his hair to the left, passes me the joint. He looks like one of those guys from A-ha. His twin brother, who parts his hair to the right, looks like the other A-ha. Holding the joint out to me, he tosses his head back, shaking hair out of his eyes. “I don’t mean a little bit startled. I mean stark terror. Unable to scream. Shit your pants scared.” I take the joint from him without answering. “I know what that feels like,” Dom says, twisting the cap off a bottle of beer. “When they brought my...
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Black Stories Matter. Here’s a Few I Really Like.

Black Stories Matter. Here’s a Few I Really Like.

by Rasmenia Comment Closed
Stories matter. They change our minds and teach us empathy. Stories help us to understand ourselves and those unlike ourselves; experiences we can never truly understand, even though we must try. If we want to make the world a place where human beings can do things like go jogging, relax at home, drive a car, or go shopping without taking a bullet or having their windpipe crushed as they call out for their mother, we must try. We must learn. We must listen to the stories. Because black stories matter.Sure, it's true that some stories are more helpful than others. For every Uncle Tom's Cabin, there's a Birth of a Nation. Every day, you have to decide what you're going to feed your brain and body. What kinds of stories you're going to consume. What kind of person you are and who you're going to be.I read as many books as I can. I try to watch all the things...
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One of the Many Things I Learned from My Dog

One of the Many Things I Learned from My Dog

by Rasmenia Comment Closed
Human beings have a weird tendency to project ridiculous ideals on themselves. Until someone or something sets them straight and they learn to embrace and live with who they really are. For me, it was my dog and a cherry tree. Yeah, a cherry tree. And my doggo.Several years ago, my husband Olivier and I bought a house out in the countryside. Like many people in the same situation, we wandered through the empty rooms seeing nothing as it actually was. We only saw everything as it could be. None of the rooms appeared empty. We were operating under a hallucination, each corner filled with our furniture. Our wall art, bric-a-brac, and books. From room to room, projecting ourselves into the blank spaces. Each of us meandering through our own personalized holodeck.Outside, we inhaled the scent wafting from the lavender bushes and craned our necks to gaze up at the tops of the tall pines in the front yard. We...
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An Author’s Rite of Passage

An Author’s Rite of Passage

by Rasmenia Comment Closed
I was selling some of my books at a local book fair when a cheerful woman walked over, scanned my table, waved her hand over my display then asked, "But do you self-publish these stories or did someone else publish them?""Both."With a squint and a head tilt, she asked me to elaborate. I explained that I publish some small books on my own, and they're a mix of things that have been published in various places and some that haven't.She nodded. "That's good."She clearly wasn't keen on self-published books. That's cool. I'm all for self-publishing, obviously, but don't disagree with her. Stories need to go through a gauntlet. So do their writers. I want control over everything, but I also crave the validation that comes from having my stories go through a gatekeeper. I like to mix it up. I don't want people telling me what to do. But I do want them to validate me. I want criticism and...
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Resurrection Through Fiction

Resurrection Through Fiction

by Rasmenia Comment Closed
Somewhere in northern Colorado there's a dingy gray duplex sitting on a cul-de-sac near the railroad tracks. Behind it is a dry, yellow field where grasshoppers and mice keep busy.One half of the duplex is occupied by my mother and a version of me at 16 years old. The other half is occupied by another single mother and her 16-year-old son, Shawn.My friend Shawn.We call one another "Neighbor Boy" and "Neighbor Girl."We call the duplex "Our House."There are shenanigans. There's trouble and fun. But life is always fucking with things, flipping them upside down, changing them into something new and almost unrecognizable.People drift apart. They move away, have adventures and things happen to them.By the time we turn 19, Shawn is a quadriplegic due to a car accident and I'm in Florida, acquainting myself with the redneck bar scene.I soon flee back to Colorado, and from time to time, I run into my old friend at a party, a mutual...
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