Lucky This Isn't Real

“Love you too, Da.”

Bundling the mean old bugger into the back of my car, I drove back to the relative safety of our house, Eoin glancing over his shoulder as Da snored on in the backseat.

“He’s still back there,” I said, after the tenth time. “And this is the last time I’m going to rescue him.”

“I know,” Eoin said, sounding deflated. “This one last time. I understand.”

I was glad he understood why I needed to be done rescuing our no-good father. I knew it was time to leave the house and the country I’d been chained to out of obligation.

It had only ever been my concern for Eoin that kept me around, but now he was a man, according to the law, and Noel, next in line to me, said he would look out for the baby of the house if I wanted to pursue acting in L.A.

Over the past few years, I’d built up my acting resume and had taken every part offered, but there was only so much I could do in Ireland. I knew I needed to be in Hollywood where all the action was.

And now it was time to really go for it. Nothing was stopping me from finally following my dreams.

Thanks to investing a good chunk of my early earnings on Bitcoin when it cost only a dollar, I had enough in the bank to rent a decent apartment, buy a car, and put food on the table when I got there. I had been planning this move for a long time, and now it was finally time to jump.

I just hoped I could handle the hard landing I was pretty sure I’d experience. I’d never been out of Ireland. I’d never done anything scary in my life.

Leaving for America was really fucking scary.

But I was going to do it, no matter what.

Taking another look at Eion’s worried face, I thought, I just hope it will turn out to be worth it.

Chapter Two – Maggie

I was used to the jokes about my line of work.

It was really little more than an occupational hazard and part of being one of the chosen few creatives in a society of philistines and cultural vandals.

My favorite line of bullshit was something along the lines of, “Oh, I too have been thinking about writing… when I retire.”

Partly because I had come up with the perfect comeback by asking what the smart ass does for a living and then saying I planned to try that when I was rich and had the time.

The look on their faces— the corporate lawyer’s, for example— was absolutely priceless and kept me warm during the lean times, which were becoming numerous. Then again, I was only twenty-one and had lots of time to learn and improve.

The most important step of a story was the first draft. It formed the basis from which the rest of the story was crafted during editing.

I’d heard that writing actually came out better when handwritten as opposed to typed, the neuron processes being vastly different, not in the least because the action of handwriting was a lot more conscious and deliberate, so the resulting words tended to be a lot more considered.

Writing out whatever story I was working on could take a bit more time than straight typing, sure, but not that much more, and because no one else needed to see the first draft, it didn’t matter how crappy it was.

Today, I was planning to head out to my favorite place to write, which was at the park under a giant Yew tree by the duck pond. I felt centered there and more able to focus and create to the best of my ability.

It might have had something to do with the fact that my dad was a hippie. I had grown up in nature, and the park reminded me of him and his earthy, wood smoke-scented clothes.

The weather had turned pretty nice, so I could wear shorts for the first time in a while. Deciding to be brave, I coupled it with my badass T-shirt that said Great Granddaughter of That Witch You Couldn’t Burn.

Pretty much ready to leave the house, I searched for my bag, finally finding it under the couch.

“Bye, sis,” I said, gently squeezing my stepsister Raquel’s nearly bare shoulder as I passed the kitchen table.

The skimpy tank top she wore barely contained her massive boobs.

“Bye,” she said bluntly, not looking up from her phone.

She had gotten super grumpy recently. We had been close at one point, but that was after my mom had married her dad. Back then, we were young enough that it still felt like we were sisters. I was eleven, and she was eight, and we were both hurting from the death of a loved one.

As she got into her later teens, though, she changed, going into full bitch mode. By the time she’d turned eighteen, which was only a couple of months ago, she became the more brutal type of nihilist. Not quite a member of the Black Pill crowd, but close enough to make me concerned.