Pastry chef by day, insomniac writer by night.
Find here: stories that creep up on you, poems to stumble over, and the weird words I hold them in.
Or, let me catch you at www.suzekay.com
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 ________ As we ate, I thought that Eleanor's advice was right. Letting Janie lead was productive, even if it chafed. I'd suspected from the start that Janie was different from the Women Who Stayed. I now felt she was different from anyone else I'd ever spoken with, let alone interviewed. She had more to say, and she wouldn't be bullied into it.
By Suze Kay2 years ago in Chapters
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 ________ That night, I called up a friend to vent. I paced around my kitchen with my cell clenched between my shoulder and my ear.
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 ________ Sheila, still surly, dropped our food on the table. Pancakes for me, of course. I seemed to have run through the little goodwill my association with Janie afforded me. I tried to keep the conversation going over the meal, but Janie only gave me short, clipped answers while she repeated her birdlike performance of eating.
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 ________ This time around at the Somerset Diner, Janie arrived before I did. Sheila gave me a friendly wave as I pushed open the heavy glass door and brought me a coffee, unprompted. Unexpected.
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 ________ In exchange for the unvarnished truth, I signed an NDA set to expire upon Janie's death.
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 ________ Janie ate her omelet in small bites. She patted her mouth with a napkin after each sip of coffee and reapplied her lipstick regularly. If this was a performance, it was practiced. I could tell she wanted me to dive in, to start demanding answers from her, but I resisted the urge to break the silence that settled once our food arrived. She'd made me wait. She could do the same.
Chapter 1 ________ We arranged to meet in person for the first time in early April. The rain was tremendous, drumming with long fingers against the windows of the Somerset Diner. A small trickle of water pooled on the chipped booth's edge. I watched it grow while I waited for Janie to arrive. When she was almost a half-an-hour late, the pool had become a puddle and I requested a new table from the sour-faced waitress.
In 2015, Janie Robichaud's response to my initial query was direct. How much are you paying? Nothing, I replied, along with a longwinded explanation about the truth being its own reward, journalistic integrity notwithstanding.
There will be no call to adventure, not until you've dug the stone out of the earth. Not until you've carved the hollow into which the sword will slip one day,
By Suze Kay2 years ago in Poets
I'll take a little something when I feel like it. I'll sip the gin and taste the diet tonic. I'll squeeze the lime and lose it
Explain it to me like you love me, the difference between what you have and what you have to do. Tone matters. I'm perched on this barstool oh-so-lightly, haunches like a spring. I'm waiting for an ill wind to blow me off. Be gentle.
Everything I make destroys me on the look back. I erase myself like the dot of an i. I forget how it felt to shiver in the rewrite, to blink
