Tracy L. Lyall - Born in Houston, Texas during the time of roller-disco and cool, cigarette-smoking tomboys, she spent her early years traveling on greyhound buses and experiencing life, much of which became the basis of her writing/art/photography ventures. After working with underground Zines her writing spanned into journalistic media. Published by university presses, magazines, and small press, she actively hunts the 'big time' while raising a series of fiction and creative non-fiction novels along with two Joeys, degrees, paintings, photography, and running an online Literary Zine –
She currently resides in a dungeon.
She's losing her mind – “got the dementia,” she says.
The bird dogs are starving, their cages smelling of poop and wet hair. It's difficult for her some days – the heat, the sun reflecting off the tin roof, the loud barking of the dogs screaming 'free me, free me'. Don is being consumed by the cancer, in and out of beer. She's started smoking pot to cope. Her relatives just around the corner, cleaning the swimming pool over and over so the kids can play. Sarah's Easter outfit and blonde hair – a ray of sunshine, 'A little rainbow'. Speckled brown and white, what's the technical term? One or two short haired Spaniels, Britney's, and the rest are Flushers – Springer Spaniels, their ears are fuller and hair curlier.
The Episcopal priest, (he's an ass). 'Can't stay with a church' her mother-in-law says, 'must not be right with God.' Was she ever right with God? She unlocks the back door and wanders out to the cages, lights a cigarette, turns on the water hose – hosing them down then turning them loose one by one. The pine trees on the edge of the yard are dropping pine cones and they run for them. She wants a divorce. He's laid up in the hospital with cancer and the in-laws keep bringing baskets and balloons, stuffed animals for Sarah (you'd think she was the one with the cancer); they begin piling up in the corner – bunnies, puppies, a giraffe and bears. Two bears. She smokes more than usual. From a half to a whole joint.
The dogs are pouncing through the yard, chasing pine cones and chomping at the stream from the water hose. Her place was never in the home, it bored her. Everytime they mentioned a womans 'role' in the church she'd snuff out one of the candles, when in line for blessing she'd drop her wafer, spill her cup, drop the prayer book flat during a quiet meditation, and knock things over on the shuffle out. Stupid dogs are trying to hop the fence and getting stuck in the wire. She squirts them with the hose. Sarah comes running up – her Easter dress muddied with dog paw prints. She'd been out there the whole time, in and out of the cages. Why couldn't she remember?
Sarah is throwing the Easter eggs across the yard and the dogs are chasing them, shaking off the water. She can't seem to put the hose down, the cages are flooding, the yard a puddle. Maybe he'll stay there with the IV in his arm. Maybe he'll never hit her again and Sarah never run to the back crying and she'd quit smoking pot. Her hair is a mess and bows falling out but she is happy, so happy. She's torn her stockings and running in circles with those dogs who love the heck out of her; licking her face.
The phone rings – she turns the water off. Andrea is standing in her driveway next door gawking. She should tear down that cheap chain link and put up a wooden fence 10 ft high, blocking out the neighbors and the sun. Sarah's grown 5 inches this past spring, a huge growth spurt. She answers the phone – “mommy, it's grammy Hamms”.
“Tell her I'm baking an Easter pie.”
The dogs are eating the died egg shells - pink, yellow, green and all. Sarah is still dragging her basket around behind her.
“Mommy, can I have a bunny?”
“No, sweetie, the dogs would eat it.”
“Ugh, no they wouldn't.”
“Yes, they're hunting dogs, trained to fetch rabbits and pheasant.”
She watches them roll in the mud, unable to comprehend.
If only they were trained to hunt humans, she'd turn herself loose in the wild – and run.