Suzanne Purvis is a writer transplanted from Canada now enjoying life in the Deep South. She writes fiction of the long and short variety for both children and adults, usually with a touch of humor. She’s garnered a few awards including first place in the University of Toronto Trinity College Alumni Short Fiction Contest. You can find her work in print anthologies, magazines, ezines, and ebooks. Inspiration abounds in her house overflowing with one husband, two teenagers, and three dogs. Visit at her website www.suzannepurvis.weebly.com, her blog www.suzannepurvis.blogspot.com or at Amazon’s Author’s Central.
Made Up for Life
Suzanna Purvis
Issue 60, Spring 2020
I am an artist.
My mother taught me well.
But not in the buy-my-work,
plant-it-on-your-wall,
hang-it-in-your-hall,
put-it-on a pedestal type of artist.
Everyday, without fail,
by 8am
I’ve laid out my brushes.
Laid out my paints.
No paper, no linen, no clay, no wood.
My canvas
is my face.
Make up
my existence.
Make up
my reality.
Make myself
into a person
who can be seen.
In public.
Toner. Primer. Foundation.
Something to build on.
Blush,
But why am I blushing?
Should I be blushing?
Embarrassed, ashamed, turned on?
Lipliner. Lipstick. Gloss.
Glossing over what?
Eyeliner. Eye shadow.
Whose shadow must I hide behind?
Highlighter.
Are there parts of me to make light of?
Contour.
Indent this,
accentuate that,
cover up
anything unsightly.
A freckle.
A mole.
Fix it
with powder and spray.
Must not change. Must not move.
I hide.
Perpetuate the legacy.
Perfect face.
Perfect girl.
I am an artist.
And I learned from my mother.
Macchiato Mix Up
Suzanne Purvis
Featured, September/October 2014
Georgia Lee Eversley stalked down the docks of the Barefoot Cove Marina with one thing on her mind--tracking down a triple shot, grande, skinny, caramel macchiato.
Who was she kidding? She’d never find her big-city drug of choice here in tiny Ashton Bay. But, at this ungodly hour, locating coffee was doable. Essential. Necessary. To re-boot her adrenaline so she could focus on the rest of her to do list.
1. Rescue her car from impound before nosy, local law enforcement found her loaded guns.
2. Use the guns to threaten, intimidate, and possibly maim a faceless, heartless bank manager who’s trying to foreclose on her aunt’s marina.
3. More caffeine.
She swiped at the perspiration on her neck. Remote northwest Florida in July. Too humid. Too familiar. Too strong a stench--of diesel fuel and fish.
She accelerated her pace. The weathered marina docks echoed the click-clack of her red stilettos. Sneakers would’ve been wise. But when she’d fled Atlanta, packing the guns had been more crucial than footwear. She stopped, leaned against the carved wooden pelican at the entrance to the marina, and checked her stinging right heel. A blister. Perfect. Another pain in her day.
Splat. A splotch of warm rain landed on her arm. The low leaden clouds fusing with the gray waters of Choctawhatchee Bay warned of not a little drizzle, but a downpour. Limping and swearing up Bay Drive, she flung open a red plastic box and grabbed the free newspaper inside--her make-shift umbrella. The sagging clouds let loose with fat drops. “Shit.”
“Mornin’ to you too, Miss Eversely.”
Georgia recognized the voice. She tilted the brim of the newspaper covering her head, and slowed.
Across the street, gray-haired and grinning, Phil waved from the doorway of Phil’s Fiberglass Repair.
She waved back. “Ah, Phil. You weren’t supposed to hear.”
He wagged his finger and clucked his tongue. “A nice, God-fearing woman like yourself shouldn’t be swearing so early in the morning.”
“Sorry. You’re right. Too early.”
“Heard you had a run in with your old beau, Officer Saunders. Confiscated your car I heard. Going fifty in a twenty. Plus some old parking tickets. Zach couldn’t really ignore all that.”
A rumble of thunder murmured in agreement.
“No, he sure couldn’t.” She ground out the words like she was chewing rocks, but she forced a smile.
“Phil, I really need coffee. Is there somewhere close?”
“Old bait shop’s now the Blue Bayou Cafe. Better hurry. A soaker’s blowing in from the Gulf.” Phil stuck out his palm, and as if on his command the drops morphed into a deluge.
Georgia swore again and dashed through quick-forming puddles. Thirty yards ahead, a turquoise awning sprouted from a white-washed, two story structure. She hadn’t been home in years, but this use to be the bait shop. Back then it had reeked of low tide and cigarettes. Now, the life-affirming scent of freshly-brewed coffee seeped through the condensation-streaked glass.
She pushed open the front door, and a too-chirpy bell jingled. Cool air, bacon fumes, and a deep drawl drenched her more thoroughly than the rain. “Welcome. Blue Bayou’s serving breakfast. Have a seat anywhere you like.”
Georgia scanned the packed, homey diner for a seat. Her gaze stalled on a drool-worthy sight.
A man--maybe tall, or maybe average. Blue eyes or brown. Blonde or bald. Didn’t matter. Her focus hung on what he held--a steaming pot of joe.
She stumbled to the counter and collapsed on a red vinyl stool. “Coffee. Thank God. ” She peeled the rain-soaked paper from her head. Judging by the holes in the newsprint, her painstakingly straightened hair must now be polka-dotted with the Emerald Coast Boat Trader. She ignored her hair and instead shucked her wet shoes. Pain shot from her blistered heel. “Oh, Lord. Coffee. Please. Now. Triple shot, grande, skinny, caramel macchiato.”
Cafe conversation died.
Holy Magnolias. The agony of peeling off her blister had block her normal brain and had shifted her mouth to automatic. She’d barked out her big-city order. She surveyed the diner for folks who might know her. None. Thank goodness. She spun her stool.
In front of her, the fragrant pot of joe hovered over a large, white, empty mug. Above the curling steam, a pair of obviously insulted, steel blue eyes.
She needed to apologize--fast. Yet, a disturbing distraction strangled her words. It wasn’t the chiseled-in-stone, handsome face belonging to the blue eyes hindering her voice. Or the mussed-up dark curls falling over his tanned forehead. Or his full, slightly-tempting lips. It was the warning.
On his apron.
Blood red letters, splattered across the expanse of his wide chest--Only two options at the Blue Bayou--Take it or Leave it!
She detected the down-turned set of his mouth and the hesitation in his joe-pouring arm. She needed to apologize. She needed to reorder. She needed caffeine.
Make her order something simple that this small-town cook could understand. Before she could change her order, to a plain coffee with cream, Apron Man poured.
“Thanks. You don’t know how much--”
THUMP. He plopped the milk beside her mug. Not a cute, ceramic creamer jug. Not a bowl of those tasteless fake-milk capsules with the peel back lids. No. The full-sized, plastic gallon jug of skim milk.
She stared, refusing to react. At least he’d known what “skinny” meant.
THUD. A quart jug of chocolate syrup landed beside the milk.
He had to be kidding. She glanced from the chocolate syrup to the cook.
He wore an I-dare-you-to-complain scowl, and then reached below the counter.
CLUNK. An institution-sized jar of caramel sauce.
WHUMP. An enormous box of sugar substitute.
CLANK. The largest aerosol can of whipped cream she’d ever seen.
Speechless, she gawked at the cluttered counter.
Apron Man shoved aside the ingredients with his muscled forearm. He leaned across the counter and glared. His dark brows arched. His mouth pressed into a tight line looking as if he were holding back a sermon. His jaw, brushed with a sexy, dark two-day stubble, jutted forward. Why did she find him--no--the look of a two-day beard, attractive? Likely because you’d never see dark stubble on an inflexible, inhumane bank manager.
Focus. Ignore the sexy stubble.
She glared back, locking Apron Man into a grade-school staring match.
Without blinking, he reached below the counter. PLUNK. A half gallon tub of multi-colored sprinkles. The corners of his mouth curled infinitesimally.
Giggles, chuckles and an outright snort bubbled from customers in the booths.
Georgia’s incredulity and slight humiliation mutated into anger. She’d save the anger. For later. For the bank manager.
She drew in a fortifying, coffee-infused gulp of air. Okay, maybe she’d caught Apron Man on an off-day. Her last twenty-four hours had been no theme-park picnic so she could relate. Yet, judging from the cautionary message on his work attire, maybe this was his permanent disposition. Too bad, because something about him had parts of her warming. Parts of her which had no business warming.
She didn’t have time to get all gooshy-goo-goo over this moderately desirable, bad-mannered cook. And he could’ve simply said they didn’t serve macchiatos. But no. He’d gone postal. Okay, so she could relate. After all, her next stop was to get her guns.
There was only one option.
She broke the stare, picked up the sweating gallon of milk, unscrewed the lid, and poured.
“Skinny.”
A lone laugh erupted from the booth to her left.
Using a spoon, she scooped a hefty serving of caramel sauce into her cup. “Caramel.” A squeeze of chocolate syrup came next. “Mocha.” With both hands, she shook, and then squirted a mountain of whip cream. “Frappe.” She opened the plastic lid, pinched some multi-colored sprinkles and tossed them onto the whipped cream. She slung her best Emeril Lagasse imitation.
“Bam! Just to kick it up a notch.”
Several snorts, chuckles and guffaws punctuated the otherwise silent diner.
Apron Man’s cobra-like gaze faltered for a nanosecond. A real smile threatened to crease his stubbled cheeks.
She held her cup high. “Skinny caramel mocha frappe. Not a macchiato, but thankfully there’s caffeine.”
She slurped. “Now, if I could get this to go, I could pretend I was at Starbuc--.”
The diners gasped in unison. The air pressure dropped.
Apron Man raised his spatula. “Don’t. Say. That. Word. Here.” He stabbed the spatula in her direction with each syllable.
She leaned back, protectively pulling her coffee close.
He looked from her to the spatula, and quickly lowered his arm, seeming surprised at his slashing utensil.
“Forgive me. That was rude. I have a soft spot for small businesses and a foul distaste for franchises. I believe if we would all support small-town business owners, the economy would most likely be back on its feet in no time. Please, don’t hold it against the Blue Bayou Cafe. I’ll just get back to the griddle.” He turned, poured batter, cracked eggs, laid bacon and flipped pancakes in a smooth, effortless breakfast-making choreography.
The diner collectively exhaled.
Georgia relaxed and savored her disgustedly sweet caffeine fix.
“But...let me wager a guess,” Apron Man said, still with his back to her. “You’re down from the big city. Going to cruise the Gulf on some forty foot yacht for a few hours. Then you’ll head back to your precious, civilized, coffee-franchise-on-every-corner city. Probably Atlanta.” He turned the sputtering bacon. “Likely you’re a lawyer or some other over-educated corporate executive, judging by your shoes.” He huffed out the last words and ladled more batter.
Part of her fumed. Part of her wanted a do-over. And part of her was thrilled he’d noticed her shoes.
He filled a platter-sized plate with flawless sunny-side-up eggs, thick, crispy bacon, six, small, round, golden pancakes, and two sliced strawberries. He held the plate inches from her nose.
The aromas made her mouth water and her stomach grumble.
He scrutinized the plate. “And to think I was going to offer you breakfast. On the house. Because we don’t serve your very specific caffeine addiction. What did you call it? Some kind of mach-i-a-traitor.” He walked to the end of the counter. “Here you go, Hank. Blue Bayou breakfast special. Enjoy.”
“Thanks, Gage. And I know for a fact they don’t serve this at the franchise whose-name-shall-not be-mentioned,” Hank said, winking.
Gage pulled off his apron. “Okay, folks. Josh is pulling in. My shift’s up. And I’m late for a meeting at the bank.”
The diner groaned, and then chanted. “Silver dollar pancakes. Silver dollar pancakes.”
“Shhhh. Don’t let Josh in on our little secret.” Apron Man pointed to the side window where a Blue Bayou minivan was pulling into the parking lot.
Hank caught Georgia’s eye. “Who would’ve thought our local bank manager could pinch-hit breakfast for his brother.”
A clot of cream and sprinkles caught in Georgia’s throat. “Wh-what?”
The bell over the door dinged.
Georgia spun. Through the fogged front window she glimpsed Gage sprinting through the rain.
She turned bank to Hank. “You mean to tell me, Apron Man, I mean Gage, is actually a bank manager?”
“Not sure about the nickname, but yup, he’s our new bank manager.”
“At Coastal Bank and Trust?”
“Yup.”
“And I gather from his emphatic, spatula-powered speech, he supports local business?”
“Yup.”
Georgia took one last pull of her caffeine concoction and slipped on her stilettos. “Is he single?”
Hank finished chewing a bacon strip. “So far.”
Maybe she wouldn’t need the guns.
The
Top Ten . . .
Inspiring Quotes from Writers on Writing
Suzanne Purvis
Sept/Oct 2014
Becoming and being a writer has been and still is a long, lonely journey. I often find solace in the inspirational, and sometimes humorous quotes of famous writers.
1. The words of Ernest Hemingway remind me writing is no easy task: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at the typewriter and bleed.”
2. When I’m experiencing writer’s block Barbara Sher’s words often help: “You don’t need endless time and perfect conditions. Do it now. Do it today. Do it for twenty minutes and watch your heart start beating.”
3. When I’m facing a big project like an 80,000 word novel,Mark Twain’s words fill me with hope: “The secret of getting ahead is getting started. The secret to getting started is breaking your complex overwhelming tasks into small manageable tasks and then starting on the first one.”
4. My first drafts are often a messy pile of dog poop and C. J. Cherryh words give me permission to keep going: “It is perfectly okay to write garbage—as long as you edit brilliantly.”
5. I love writing short stories, but they are not easy as Henry David Thoreau reminds me: “Not that the story need be long, but it will take a long while to make it short.”
6. I am not a big planner, outliner, or plotter and usually write by the seat of my pants. E. L. Doctorow’s words remind me I don’t have to know everything about the plot before I sit down to write: “Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”
7. Edgar Rice Burroughs words remind me to just keep writing, every day, lots of stories: “If you write one story, it may be bad; if you write a hundred, you have the odds in your favor.”
8. Revising can be my best friend or my worst enemy, butOscar Wilde’s words remind me I’m not alone: “This morning I took out a comma and this afternoon I put it back again.”
9. There are many, many, many rules for writing well, but I like Robert Silverberg’s best: “Three Rules for Literary Success: 1. Read a lot. 2. Write a lot. 3. Read a lot more, write a lot more.”
10. And because I love Ernest Hemingway and a his hits of humor: “There is no rule on how to write. Sometimes it comes easily and perfectly; sometimes it’s like drilling rock and then blasting it out with charges.”
Honorable Mention recipient from the 2013 Bethlehem Writers Roundtable Short Story Award competition.
SARs Season
Suzanne Purvis
(June, 2013)
This Season’s Flu: a New Strain of SARS the headline blares. Why did I choose this flu-shot riddled, too-close-to-the-free-medical clinic pharmacy to get my wellness supplies? I hurry into the shortest checkout line with a nicely dressed business woman and her few items. She looks efficient, at least from the back.
I set down my bottle of 1000 mg of vitamin C, and stack the 50 mg of zinc on top, less surface area to contact the germ-infested black conveyor belt. Sneezes, coughs, and spit go round and round waiting to find a home on my unsuspecting purchases. I top my tower with a bottle of Echinacea.
The belt moves forward, and I squeeze myself between the diabetic-wasteland shelves filled with gum and candy. Then I take a good look at the well-dressed woman’s purchases. Shit. Cough medicine, decongestant in the form of pills, and a box of aloe-infused tissue. I need to go back and get the 1000mg of Vitamin D-3. I back up and smack into a cart where a red-nosed toddler sits with snot dripping into his mouth. Double shit.
I jump forward. Get me out of this virus-infested sandwich. But the well-dressed woman is deep in conversation with the cashier, who’s twenty years past retirement age and is taking his sweet time with his job of scanning and packing. The kid behind me sneezes, and I push my wellness tower further along the belt, hoping Mr. Chatty Cashier gets the message to pick up the pace.
“I’m not feeling well. It came on so suddenly. Sore throat and a headache. I had to leave work. And we’re so busy,” the well-dressed woman says.
“Make yourself some nice hot tea, get under the covers and sweat it out. That’s the best way to get rid of those nasty bugs, and the fastest,” the ancient cashier advises.
Speaking of fastest--
“Oh no. Looks like I’ve run out of receipt tape,” he says. “Just be a moment.” His tone suggests he has all the time in the world.
The well-dressed woman turns. Her face is pale and her droopy eyes fix on me. “I think I’m sick,” she says, in a nasal-filled voice.
“That’s too bad,” I say, as the germy toddler smacks me in the rear. I’m forced to take another step forward into the contagious zone.
“I think I may have a fever,” she says, her gaze pleading, and her lips pouting.
I nod, sympathetically.
“Would you mind checking?”
Is she serious? I look behind me, hoping a nurse practitioner with an electronic ear thermometer suddenly appeared in the kid’s cart. No, only the snot-nosed three-year-old, standing, staring, and coughing disease in my direction.
The cashier stops trying to thread the receipt paper and stares at me with a better-you-than-me look.
The woman leans her sweaty forehead in my direction.
I smile weakly. Her top lip might actually be trembling. Oh God, just get me out of this infected sector. Beads of sweat pop out on my own forehead. Shit.
I reluctantly place my palm on her clammy forehead, and quickly withdraw it. “Yes, you seem a little warm.”
Her shoulders relax, and she leans away. “I knew it. I’ll tell my boss. He’ll have to let me take the rest of the day off.”
I vigorously rub my palm on my thigh and nod, thinking the virus must have already blurred her brain because this makes no sense. Her boss will believe some random woman in a checkout line, using a very un-scientific method of fever detection?
The kid in the cart pokes me, hitting the jagged end of my last nerve. I twist, ready to shove his cart all the way back to the pharmacist, but the toddler’s holding out his chubby hand.
“Here. You nice.” Sitting in the middle of his petri dish palm are cough drops he must’ve snatched from the shelves. I look into his red-rimmed blue eyes and bark out a laugh. Smart kid. Clairvoyant probably. Knows I’ll be needing these.
“Thanks.” I crown my wellness stack with his gift.
As the well-dressed woman slumps away, the cashier holds out a bottle of hand sanitizer. “You might be nice, but not too bright. Don’t you read the headlines?”
Suzanne Purvis writes from the often unnoticed, or sometimes forgotten coast of Florida, the northwest Panhandle. She writes fiction for both children and adults and recently won the prestigious University of Toronto Trinity College Alumni Short Fiction contest with Bait and Hook. Three of her short fiction pieces for children have been published in print anthologies, and several more have been published with online magazines. When she’s not writing, she can be found splashing in, on or around the turquoise waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Visit Suzanne’s website and blog.