Published Works
Forgotten
by Hannah Langley
Familiar screams bombard me when I open the door. Home sweet home. I roll my eyes and march into the center of the living room. My mother rocks the little crying demon while my stepfather smiles down at the creature. Neither of them looks up. Are they even aware of my presence? I stomp into the kitchen, grab a plate out of the sink, and drop it onto the cold tile floor. It explodes with a thunderous clap. The idol worshippers don't even turn in my direction. They're too worried about their pinkish pagan god's displeasure to notice. Just as I suspected, they don't even know I'm here. I run up the stairs, throw open my bedroom door, and crawl under my bed.
Between the rusty metal cross bars supporting the canvas-covered springs sways a thin veil. A spider's limp web droops inches above me. Long abandoned, the knotted white-transparent strands hang like unkempt hair. I reach up and feel a sticky cord. A bit unwinds with my touch. It's so fragile in this state. I blow softly on the wispy web so as not to break its weak grip on my finger. I stop, feeling remorse for disturbing the roots of something so frail. I know what it's like to have to struggle, to fight futilely to hold onto a foundation.
My mother and I used to be two single gals, best friends, each other's one and only. And that's how we were going to be forever. Until Rich. My mother met him a year ago. They married after a month of dating. I dealt with it, although I didn't like it. My mother still spent time with me. That's what mattered. And, Rich was cordial. I thought I would survive. But then the "joyous gift from God," as they call him, arrived. From the moment my mom peed on that little stick I was to be pushed aside to make room for the tiny thing growing inside her womb.
My eyes dart from the fragment on my finger, back to the remnants of the web. Why did the spider abandon her home? Not merely her home, but her majestic creation. I gaze at the long-dead insect carcasses embalmed in the web's tangles—proof of its former grandeur. The spider must have been proud of her work. I shift into a more comfortable position. A small scrap of paper touches my fingers. I lift it to my eyes and squint. My report card. I must have thrown it under here. All A's. I showed it to Mom last week, but she was too busy feeding the spawn to really look at it.
I observe how the web spans the distance from one corner of my bed to another, the remains of a great silk trapeze. A once effective trap to bring a spider all she could ever expect from a web.
I do all that Mom asks of me.
The spider must have loved this web. She must have taken pride in caring for her spectacular creation.
Mom was proud of me, or so she said.
This fine product of diligent work provided the spider food and a functional home.
I always try my best.
I can't help but wonder why the spider would ignore its wondrous invention, leaving it to quiver alone under an old mattress and a rusty bed frame.
Why would Mom just forget about me?
A maddening sound from downstairs seeps through my bedroom floor. Mom is cooing again to my new half-brother.
Then it strikes me. I know why the spider left her web and why my mother has discarded me. It only takes a spider an insignificant hour to weave her web. It didn't take long for my mother to make a new family either. With so little time spent on a project, once the object of interest gets too old, the creator can move on—move on to create a new, even better life than before.
I crush my report card into a damp wad and toss it aside. I brush a dusty strand of hair out of my eyes and taste a salty tear.
The saggy lonely web, its once-glistening strings now obscured by bits of dust and lint, trembles as I release a shaky breath. We share the same fate, the web and I. We are forgotten.
Misplaced
By Hannah Langley
Okay . . . just calm down. Calm down and pick up the phone. It’s not like I can sweep this one under the rug, like the broken vase . . . or the mirror.
Read the entire monologue in the June edition of Long Story Short
Juan the Silent - Episode One
• Hannah C. Langley
Juan moved soundlessly from the shadow of a great pine tree. He shaded his eyes and scanned the bare landscape of red and yellow rocks, down to the road that wound along the canyon floor far below. The slightest puff of dust looped through the sky as a lizard skidded across the dry land. He smiled. Almost there. Almost home. Juan breathed in the arid midday air. Then he closed his eyes and filled his mind with the smell of his darling Katharina.
Please click here to read the entire story, first published on Hack Writers
FORGOTTEN
First Published by G Twenty Two Literary Journal
As I open the door, I hear the familiar screams. Home sweet home, I think, rolling my eyes. I stomp into the center of the living room and see my mother rocking the little crying demon. My stepfather smiles down at the creature. Neither of them looks up. I wonder if they're even aware of my presence. I wander into the kitchen, grab a plate out of the sink, and drop it onto the cold tile floor. It explodes with a thunderous clap. The idol worshippers don’t even turn to look. They're too worried about their pink pagan god’s displeasure to notice. Just as I suspected, they don’t even know I’m here. I run up the stairs, throw open my bedroom door, and crawl under my bed to hide.
I look up at the underside of my mattress, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. Between the rusty metal cross bars supporting the canvas-covered springs above me, sways a thin veil. A spider’s limp web droops inches above me. It's long abandoned. The knotted white-transparent cords hang in a haphazard mass, like unkempt hair. I reach up and touch a sticky cord. A bit unwinds with my touch. It seems so fragile in this state. I blow softly on the wispy web so as not to break its weak grip on my finger. I stop, feeling remorse for disturbing the roots of something so frail. I know what it's like to have to struggle, to fight, futilely, to hold onto a foundation.
My mother and I lived alonejust her and me, ever since I could remember. I was her life she used to say. We were two single gals, best friends, each other’s one and only. And that’s how we were going to be forever. Until Rich. My mother met him a year ago. Long story short, after a month of dating they were married. I dealt with it, although I didn’t like it. My mother still spent time with me. That’s what mattered. And, Rich was cordial. I thought I would survive. But then the "joyous gift from God", as they call him, was set to arrive. From the moment my mom peed on that little stick I was to be pushed aside to make room for the tiny thing growing inside my mother’s womb.
My eyes dart from the fragment on my finger, back to the remnants of the web. I wonder why the spider abandoned her home. Not only her home, but her majestic creation. I gaze at the many long-dead insect carcasses embalmed in the web’s tangles─ proof of its former grandeur. The spider must have been proud of her work. I slide my arm across the rough Berber to find a more comfortable position. I feel something under my fingers. I lift the small scrap of paper to my eyes, and squint to read it. It’s my report card. I must have thrown it under here. All A’s. I showed it to Mom last week, but she was too busy feeding the spawn to really look at it.
Please click here to see the entire story
The Lost Apology
By Hannah C. Langley
Read the entire monologue from Puffin Circus Literary Magazine Summer 2009 Issue below:
It was so easy to be angry at you. So damn easy. You were the first—maybe the only—person who ever cared. But you had everything, and it was so easy to be angry at you. You were loyal, kind, pretty, smart. You had a house, your own room…but more important, you had two people who loved you—who loved each other—waiting for you when you got home. When you walked into your house, hellos and hugs greeted you. You went home to something and you were someone. When I walked in my door, it was either "Where the hell have you been?" or worse, nothing.
Those were the hardest days…when they said nothing. Nothing to the nothing. At least when they were yelling or fighting, I existed. Otherwise, I was nothing. But you, my best friend, were always something. I never had anyone make me feel like I was worth anything, but you always had that. That's why it was so easy to be angry, even hate you for all those years, actually ever since I met you.
I was so jealous of everything that you had. So envious, that I wasn't willing to give…give anything back to you. Every time you gave me a gift, I was jealous that you had a gift to give. So I never thanked you. Every time you shared something with me, I was jealous that you had something to share…that you even wanted to share with me. So I never thanked you. Every time you said something kind to me, it made me feel guilty for the crap in my head. You were the most generous person I ever met, but I envied your ability to be generous. That is why I was angry at you. That is why I never thanked you. That's why I only gave you my troubles in return. I brought you down with me because you cared enough to come. I wanted you to suffer like I did. To feel like I did—like nothing! All because I was jealous, I gave you nothing, and I am so sorry. You were nothing but good to me and I…I've proved my parents were right.
I am nothing.
Misplaced
By Hannah Langley
Okay . . . just calm down. Calm down and pick up the phone. It’s not like I can sweep this one under the rug, like the broken vase . . . or the mirror.
Misplaced is placed again. Read the entire monologue at:
http://orelitrev.startlogic.com/v4n2/OLR-langley.htm
World class collection is just ducky
Marvin Stanman collects birds that are works of art
By Hannah Langley
For The Signal
Some people collect stamps. Some people collect rocks. Marvin Stanman collects ducks.
Stanman's Valencia home is filled with approximately 250 handmade bird decoys, as well as numerous paintings and other bird-centric art.
His interest in these carved creatures began 40 years ago after he had been duck hunting in Kern County.
Since then, Stanman's devotion to his hobby and patronage of the faux fowl craftsmen has not waned. He has even become something of an expert in the trade.