Chapter 1 (contributor: Amanda Meeks)

"Excuse me, may I please set these here, on this seat?" The stranger barely acknowledged my question, nodded, and continued staring at his Chicago Tribune as I delicately set my wedding flowers on the seat that separated us and sat myself down on the other side. For a brief moment, I wondered whether my four years in Savannah, Georgia had given me that sweet southern bell charm and polite demeanor that many people of the general world seem to lack.

It does not matter.

In less than a day's time, I will be saying my vows to a gentleman, who had just as much southern charm as anyone from a small town near Indianapolis.

The flowers smelled so sweetly, even through their dark casket like boxes. Intrigued by the light scent of lilies and baby's breath, I opened one of the boxes to take yet another peak at the displays nestled inside. Light shone in, and I closed my eyes as I inhaled deeply and felt the train pull away from the platform with only the slightest jerk. I could feel my heart beat in my chest as I forgot where I was for a moment and remembered the lilies in my mother's garden; our garden at the house I grew up in within the now hazy boarders of the Ukrainian Village. I used to pick the lilies for my mother for special occasions, but my favorite had become surprising her for no apparent reason with pilfered flowers from her garden. I had always appreciated my mother, and should have found ways to show it more as I grew older. I opened my eyes.

I had not even noticed the doors opening and closing at the next stop or the automated voice that seems to speak out of thin air, but realized we were moving along again and I was still on a train. The stranger a seat away lifted his eyes to mine as I closed the box between us. I wondered whether he enjoyed the smell or resented me for letting it out of the box and disturbing his morning routine of reading the news and looking particularly surly. His facial expression gave me the impression that it was the latter.

Just as I turned my head from the man sitting two seats down, I noticed our train was slowing. A voice resonated through the air and informed the train that we were experiencing a short delay. The train came to a halt. I sat with my hands in my lap for a moment, wondering what it might be like to be this man, wondering where he was going on a day like today. I then noticed that he was married, judging by the ring on his finger. Are all married people unhappy? I contemplated for a moment and then decided that answer was no; just this one.

I couldn't possibly imagine Chad to be this unhappy, riding the train, as a middle aged married man. He'd be married to me, and as far as I knew that would be enough for him to be happy for the rest of his life. We have spent the last year of our engagement planning out the rest of our "happily ever after" lives. Oddly enough, there were no train commutes in our future. There are not any trains in the tiny town we would be moving to, that same tiny town that Chad grew up in and felt was an appropriate place to raise a family.

Thinking back to my own childhood, I could not remember a single time that I had wished for anything but being with my mother. She was always what inspired me to be creative, to learn, to find the beauty in the concrete. When Chad visits Chicago with me, all he can marvel at is the amount of concrete. He doesn't see the history and the beauty of people of all shapes, colors, and backgrounds living together, struggling together. It never occurred to me that growing up anywhere but Chicago would have made me a completely different person.

In fact, at the ripe age of twenty-two, I doubted many people had that revelation. I knew, myself, that I had not had many life-changing revelations in my life-time.

The train sat. The world outside kept moving, but as I looked around the car, all I saw was blank, motionless faces and I felt it, suddenly. I felt the desire to jump up and proclaim that Chicago was a beautiful city, and everyone needed to take a look around them instead of being lost in their day-to-day thoughts. But, I returned to my thoughts as soon as I felt I might frighten people by jumping up and screaming on a stationary train.

My thoughts settled somewhere in my memory, where I keep my mother. It was always an amazing concept to me, that her parents brought her here when she was just nine years old. They started with nothing, not even a social security card, and they worked their way into the city, into the United States, from rock bottom.

I wondered if I would ever have the opportunity, or the need, to work my way up from rock bottom. So far, life seemed fairly effortless for me and I could be as naïve as I wanted. My future was laid out in front of me as this very train sat, lifeless itself, putting my life on hold. For a moment I let this thought amble on through my mind, setting off motion detector lights and triggering feelings that were unexpected.

My mother. A woman who gave me everything she could when I was growing up. She gave me things she was not allotted while a child and yet she gave me the determination her parents had instilled in her as well. Perhaps that is where the difference lies between her and I, in the fact that I had nothing of dire need to work for, no family to support, no business to run, and yet I had determination and desire all the same. I have not yet even had to be truly independent at this point in my life.

A thought came crashing through the train like a tidal wave: What if I am settling with a simple marriage and a happy life, but missing the parts that will really define my existence? The parts that will challenge me and force me to put my determined nature to good use.

I looked around the train only to see that the only person this tidal wave had rushed over was myself. Everyone else sat motionless and lifeless with the train.

That's it. I will not be able to go through with this marriage. Chad would be heartbroken, but so would I. That would just be the first chapter of my story though. We came to Chicago to get married in the place where I grew up, only to move to the place where he grew up and raise a family. I just wasn't done growing up and Chicago had so much to offer still.

With a slow jerk and a stutter the train motioned forward. As the train started moving again, people shifted and came to life with it. The automated voice sounded unapologetic when it finally spoke up to say, "Next stop, Belmont." As passengers in my car got ready to flee the scene of my revelation, I too got ready.

I turned to the man who had been sitting next to me and asked him if he was married. When he replied with the answer that I already knew, I said, "Please give this box to your wife, it has something that will brighten her day inside." And I swiftly took the other box under my arm and rounded myself around the seats and through the door in time to hear the familiar automated voice say, "Doors closing!"

Here is the Idea...

Ok, so law school is not stimulating enough and I have an idea for something a little more creative!

Here is the idea, I want to write a book, but not by myself. I am
thinking getting different people from all over the place to build a
book together.
FOR WRITERS, THIS IS WHY I WANT YOU:
I will write the first page and then someone reads the first page and
continues the story and write one page and so on and so
forth, so each person writes one page. I want this book to go on for
one year...365 pages.

FOR ARTISTS, THIS IS WHY I WANT YOU:
After the first page is written I want artists to start drawing
pictures or take photographs that coincide with the written
work....365 pieces of art if possible.

FOR MUSICIANS, THIS IS WHY I WANT YOU:
Similar to why I want artists, but this element would add an audio
portion to the story. Write music, lyrics, no lyrics...whatever you
think fits with where the story is going.

Ideally, I want my own url for this book idea, but for now this is what I am working with...in the case that you know a thing or two about building websites contact me!



KRISTINE CATALOGNA
KristineLandslide@gmail.com